<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Unable to Stay, Unwilling to Leave by fallingforcas</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22684933">Unable to Stay, Unwilling to Leave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas'>fallingforcas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Boys In Love, Falling In Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, RMS Titanic, Titanic AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:26:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,479</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22684933</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Titanic AU </p><p>"Now that Ian had decided to live, the height was terrifying. Looking at Mickey, the scuff with an abrasive attitude but eyes like blue diamonds, he felt overcome by vertigo. He’s convinced that Mickey is a somewhat angel in his dissociative state. Somehow his voice charmed him, made him feel safe, made him forget what he was actually running from."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Ship of Dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>couldnt help but picture these two love birds as Jack and Rose<br/>Promise I won't break your hearts</p><p>ps. sorry that I made Fiona a bitch lol</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s 1912. A gleaming superstructure that was the Titanic rested breathlessly along the tranquil waters. The smell of fresh paint still immensely significant, the china untouched, the sheets never embracing a human body. The Titanic rose mountainously beyond the rail, it’s three large funnels towering over, standing against the sky like pillars of a divine temple. Dwarfed by the enormity of the steamer, the crewman dash around the deck, preparing for the ships first major voyage. </p><p>Crowds of hundreds darken the ground beneath the ship, feeding off the new sense of freedom like ants viciously biting into little breadcrumbs. A mixture of childish laughter, constant anticipating chatter and car horns blaring, a consistent yell of farewells, blankets the ship and its surroundings, a bubble of anxiousness and excitement. </p><p>The Titanic was called the Ship of Dreams; and it really was something magnificent. </p><p>Parting through the fumbling and uttering crowds, drives a white, crisp white Renault touring car. As the press of people move to one side, steaming to board the ship with hustling seamen and stokers, porters and perfectly dressed White Star Officials. </p><p>The Renault comes a sharp stop and the driver scurries to open the door for a young man, in his early 20s, dressed in a pinned, tailored black suit that hugs his body in a constricting manner. His ginger hair is gelled back, opening up the twinkling glint in his overly large green eyes. With a slow turn of a glance, he looks up to the overpowering structure before him with a chilled appraisal. </p><p>Directing his gaze away from the ship, his eyes landing on the scurry of people barging their way through eachother just to reach the boat, he couldn’t help but wonder what this ship really had to offer. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It looks nothing bigger than the Mauretania. It’s a ship? Why is everyone killing eachother to get on a goddamn ship?” </p><p>As he ponders, the valet rushes to the opposite side of the car. With a quick swoop of the opening car door, Russ Walters exits the grand vehicle, his nose pointed up with a squint. Like the other man’s, his suit was tailored immaculately; immediately possessing a powerful, upper-class stance that intimidated anyone in its path. However, this suit did not constrict but fell relaxed on his body; he was comfortable in it, almost too comfortable. Russ Walters was a powerful figure, an heir to the elder Walter’s lucrative fortune. At 40 years of age, he was somewhat of a true success. </p><p>With a snigger, he looks towards his husband-to-be. “Oh, Ian. You can be so blasé about some things. This is the Titanic. You cannot just brush the Titanic away like you do with everything else.” As Ian rolls his eyes, Russ continues, motioning towards the ship. “This is over a hundred feet bigger than that other ship. Squash courts, Parisian café’s and even Turkish baths.” </p><p>Wonderful, Ian internally squirmed. All the things he loathed entirely squished into one ship. </p><p>Russ recognises Ian’s boredom. He reaches his hand out to Ian’s sister. Fiona Gallagher. A society empress, Fiona indulged in all of the upper-class traditions. The Gallagher’s were a prominent family from Chicago; their father, Frank Gallagher, was known by all, and praised mostly by all. Differing from Ian’s striking appearance, Fiona kept white-faced and flicked her long, shimmering hair behind her neck; he stance upright, dominating her surroundings. As a widow she believes in potent independence and female superiority – not that she would express those beliefs, of course. </p><p>Russ kisses Fiona’s hand, “Your brother is so hard to please, Fiona.” As they pass Ian and his contempt for the ship, he signals a puddle to her. “Watch your step.”<br/>
Ian reluctantly follows, each step a bit closer to his personal defeat. Fiona gasps as she runs his eyes across the ship’s size, walking with Russ in a link of arms. “They say this ship is unsinkable, you know?” </p><p>“It is unsinkable. God himself could not sink this ship!” Russ releases his words with a tinge of arrogance and pride that made Ian cringe. </p><p>Baffled by them both, Ian considers the positives of stepping over that freshly placed threshold. Besides leaving the confines and dullness of Southampton, with the ability to finally be home, Ian hated water, sailing, any sort of activity that involved being in the middle of a giant-ass ocean. He hated the fact that he would be trapped, suffocated even, in a too-large cabin with his sister and husband-to-be. His sister, a reigning tower of pressure, continuously worrying about her reputation and her social status within the upper-class tavern. His husband-to-be, a drunk and total possessive psychopath and never avoided hitting Ian if he spoke once out of place. Russ, the man who would not stop until he had everything; the man that made Ian feel like a little, scared boy. The man that Ian felt was gripping him until he couldn’t breathe, a constant reminder that his life was not his own, but the property of those around him. </p><p>Ian loathed them both; he loathed the world around him. If he could, he’d run. He’d run until his legs bled and dropped from beneath him. He’d smash through the crowds and rip off the tight, restricting suit. He would, if he could, but that wouldn’t be very upper-class of him.</p><p>Jostled from his thoughts, a small porter scurries towards them, “Sir, you’ll need to check your baggage through the main terminal. It’s round that—” </p><p>Nonchalantly, in a way that made Ian feel nauseas, Russ hands the man a couple of bucks. The porter’s eyes dilate, as if he had never seen a buck before. Russ slaps his back with appreciation, “I put my faith in you, good man.” </p><p>With a gleam of total arrogance, Russ winks towards his most-trusted valet; John Lovejoy. A man with a cold look in his eye, who would serve and protect Russ with every fibre of his hundred-dollar suit. “See my man. Money does bring happiness.”  </p><p>The porter stutters, pocking the money as quickly as possible. “My pleasure, sir. Of course, sir.”</p><p>Russ giggles at the fumbling display. He never tires of the effect of money on the poorer masses. </p><p>Ian feels worse, however. Russ’s roused amusement towards to the unfortunate always made him anxious, sick even. Somewhere in his mind he knew he didn’t belong there. With stricken eyes, he watches as an entourage of rich American’s flood walkways, servants in tow, a quintessential example of Edwardian upper-class.  Ian feels his shoulders deflate a little. As a man within that little spectacle of a category, one which all wanted to be part of, he wished nothing more than to be one of the unwashed, scurrying men that cared for nothing but a chance in the world. </p><p>Russ breezes on, leaving his minions to scramble behind him. He glances at his watch, “Well, we’d better hurry. This way.” He notices Ian slacking behind them. Russ glares towards him; a look that only Ian, or Russ’s victims, would see. </p><p>Ian did not need to hear the words, he just complied. Getting on that ship was hell enough, he did not need Russ angry too. </p><p>Russ leads them to the first-class gangway which differed massively from the cluttering mess that was the third-class entrance. They weave between vehicles and luggage, and hurrying passengers (mostly second-class and steerage that Russ did not avoid sneering at.), and well-wishers. Typically, the first-class passengers made sure to avoid the smelly press of the emerging dockside crowd by using an elevated boarding bridge. Ian realised that this was purely for show. You have to show those poor fucks who’s on top, right? He always remembered Russ drunkenly spurting. </p><p>As they pass the line of steerage passengers, all covered in wool and tweed, Ian looks gobsmacked at the difference in treatment. Health officers combed through each person’s hair, checking for lice, asking about diseases or colds. Ian laughed to himself, they really are up their own ass…thinking upperclass people can’t have diseases. As Ian finally smiles to himself, for what had been years, he watches as Russ is barged into by two young steerage boys. He feels his laughter bubbling again. </p><p>Russ scowls, his voice laced with the anger and hatred that only Ian knew too well. “Steerage swine! Stay in your lane.” </p><p>Fiona huffs, clinging onto Russ as they neared closer to the boat. “Honestly, Russ. You’ve gotta stop booking these things late. We could have gone through the terminal instead of running around the dock like some immigrant family. They may have to check me for diseases with being even a meter near them. Disgusting.”<br/>
Ian cannot believe he shared genes with such an oblivious and obnoxious human. </p><p>“It’s all part of my charm, Fiona,” Russ explains himself with grand smile, “If your brother there didn’t take hours to get ready, we’d be on board by now.” </p><p>Ian tries not to bark back. Be that little good rich boy, just nod and agree. “You told me to change.” </p><p>Russ lands a light slap to Ian’s cheek, “Come on, Ian. That other outfit was awful. I can’t have my husband-to-be showing me up on sailing day. Can I?” Him and Fiona laugh, “Anyway, black looks better. Suits your depressed look you’ve got going on.” </p><p>Ian feels his suit getting tighter at Russ’s words. He hadn’t even stepped onto the boat and he already felt seasick. Deciding against speaking another word, he obediently shadows Russ and Fiona as they mounted the gangway. </p><p>Russ carries on the spiel that was intended to make Ian feel worthless, “See, look what I’ve done for you. I’ve pulled every string to get us on the grandest ship in history, and you act as if you’re going to your execution. Put a smile on your face, you don’t look pretty groaning about like some poor boy.” </p><p>Ian takes the first step onto the gangway, looking up towards the pillar like funnels. The hull of the Titanic looms over them, a great iron wall, darkened by it’s Bible black paint. Russ ushers him forward and he can feel his heart pounding rapidly against his chest. As he reaches the top of the gangway he’s drowned with the overwhelming sense of dread. </p><p>To everyone else, the Titanic was the Ship of Dreams. To Ian, it was a slave ship, taking him back to America in chains. </p><p>Russ grabs Ian’s bicep possessively, escorting him towards the doors that led them into D-Deck. As Ian allows himself to be walked into the depths of his own hell, the Titanic’s hull swallows them completely. </p><p>Outwardly, Ian was everything an upper-class man should be. Inside, he was screaming.<br/>
***<br/>
Crowded with dockworkers and crewmen from the local fishing boat, the crowded pub that was roaring with drunk men catching a break from their continuous manual labour faced the dock that housed the towering monster of a ship, the Titanic. The Ship of Dreams, as the old drunks would slur with a clink of their beer. Just inside the smoky pub, an intense poker game was in progress. Four men, all doused in their own manual sweat and ripped clothing, were playing a serious hand.<br/>
Two of the men, Mickey Milkovich and Iggy Milkovich, both in their early 20s, exchange a glance towards the other two players: Sven and Olaf. Mickey, a stocky American drifter with a foul mouth and even more menacing attitude to match his hardened fists, shuffled his cards. Carrying a little stubble, his stark black hair worryingly falling all over the place with a single strand hanging infront of his piercing blue eyes, he takes a drag from his slow, burning cigarette. Mickey had lived, mostly on his own before Iggy followed, on his own from the age of 15. From sleeping in doorways, to catching a break and finding an empty inn, Mickey was pretty much the definition of a poor fuck. Not that he was ashamed of his social status; he was amusing sometimes to not have to care about jewels or freshly pressed linen sheets. Iggy, his cousin, didn’t hold the same intelligence and care-free nature that Mickey possessed. </p><p>The two other players, both Swedish and large in stature, continue their sullen argument. All in Swedish, of course. </p><p>“You stupid, fuck. I can’t believe you betted our tickets!” </p><p>“You lost our money. I’m trying to get that back. Shut up and take a card.” </p><p>Mickey laughs, his thumb brushing over his brow. He didn’t need to speak Swedish to know that they were crapping themselves. “Hit me again, Sven.” He calls.<br/>
Sven complies. Mickey then takes a card from the worn pack and slips it into his hand. He watches as the rest grow in anxiety fuelled tension. Mickey licks his lips, looking across the table with an immense poker face. He knew what was on the cards, here. Literally. A ticket that could bring him home. A chance to set sail across the Atlantic on the grandest ship made and live to tell the tale. Southampton was nothing but a dull ache in his chest; boring, annoying and totally unnecessary. Mickey needed an out. This was his chance. </p><p>As the Titanic’s horn whistles signalling the final warning, Mickey finally speaks, “Moment of truth boys. Somebodies fucking life is about to change.”<br/>
Iggy grumpily slams his cards on the table, followed by a disgruntled Sven and Olaf. Mickey hums, sensing a weird feeling deep in the hollow of his stomach. They hear the horn blow out again. Mickey grabs the cards, “Okay, Iggy got nothing. Not surprising. Olaf,” he glances towards the incredibly nervous Swede, “you’ve got shit. Sven? Oh…. oh, two pair.” </p><p>Holding his cards close, Mickey hums, increasing the built tension surrounding the table. Mickey turns to Iggy, his lips pressed together. “Sorry, man.” He says, apologetically with a hand on Iggy’s shoulder. </p><p>Iggy’s eyes fill with rage, “The fuck man? What you got? I swear to god, Mickey, if you’ve lost my money. That’s our rent—” </p><p>Mickey interrupts, his sulk turning into a wide smirk, “I’m sorry that I’m better at playing cards than your sorry ass!” He stands up, slamming his cards onto the table. Full house. Mickey grabs a shocked Iggy into a hug, fisting the air. “We’re going home. We’re going fucking home, man!” </p><p>Within a second, Iggy jumps to his feet, cheering a hollering as he kissed the two tickets in glee. “We’re going to America! Fuck yeah! America!” </p><p>As Mickey and Iggy relish in all their luck, the bartender yells through the cheering, “No, mate. Titanic goes to America in five minutes.” </p><p>They both stand still before rushing to grab their well-earned winnings from the lopsided wooden table. Coins, tools, and even chocolate bars that youd must save up for months to buy, were brushed into Mickey’s sack-like bag. They giggle as they dash out of the pub, small bags over their shoulders, and wide smiles splashed across their face. </p><p>For Mickey, the Titanic was a symbol of hope. To some, it was the ship of dreams. To Mickey, it was the ship that transported him to them dreams. </p><p>Mickey and Iggy dart through the pressed crowds, carrying everything they own in the world on their backs. They sprint towards the pier, the boat growing as they admire it deeply. They tear through the crowded dock, laughing towards the yelling of slow-moving men. Dodging piles of luggage, jumping over it as if they were free running, they burst out into the pier. Mickey stops in his tracks as he comes face to face with the monstrous ship; it was magnificent. A wonder built of iron and bolts.<br/>
Iggy runs back and grabs Mickey, shoving him forward. They clock the third-class gangway at E Deck and immediately pick up their speed. However, when they reach the top of the gangway the White star official, with a screwed-up face, detaches the rail from the boat side. Mickey, slightly breathless from running and beaming with excitement, yells, dangling their tickets, “Hey! We’re passengers! You’ve gotta let us on, man.” </p><p>The officer looks suspicious, “Have you both been through the inspections?” </p><p>Mickey nods over enthusiastically, “Yeah, Yeah. Of course.” He glances back and forth from Iggy and then back to the officer. “Anyway, we don’t have lice. We’re Americans?” </p><p> </p><p>The officer pauses for a second, before falling for Mickey’s charm. “Okay, go on.” </p><p>They both rush through the boat side, pushing past steerage passengers as they dashed down the halls. Mickey clasps his hand around Iggy’s back, finally feeling that sense of freedom that only existed in stories, and shouts, “We’re the luckiest sons of bitches in the world, y’know that? Fuck! We’re going home, man!” </p><p>Their laughs and cheers of pure and freeing happiness echoes through the never-ending halls of the third-class accommodation. It wasn’t the best, or the cleanest, place Mickey had set eyes on, but he had a bed, food in his stomach, and an unmoving smile on his face. There was a sense of hope and yearning that filled his entire being, a feeling that was unusual and alien to him. For once, he felt that life was finally moving in the right direction.<br/>
***<br/>
Ian attempts to arrange the paintings he had collected in his time in England. His room, the so called “Millionaire Suite”, consisted of two bedrooms, a bath, a WC, a wardrobe room and then a very empty but large sitting room. Ian ignored the fancy trimmings that his sister continued to admire. Ian look at this decorative touch at the corner of this bedpost. Its so personal, its so Titanic. Don’t you think? Ian would just roll his eyes. </p><p>Ian didn’t understand why they needed to have one of the largest suites on the ship. He didn’t understand why they needed to occupy so much space and have so many rooms for a five day trip on the ocean. Ian didn’t understand many things that was required of being an upper-class man. The suits, the dinners, the fake cigarettes, the way that Russ would pay off anyone just to pick up his form that landed two feet from his shoe. Ian didn’t get it. Not at all. </p><p>The waiter pours champagne into his glass that lay untouched on the overly large table that was central within the vastness of space. Ian placed a painting, an abstract<br/>
drawing of water lillies, onto an uninhabited chair. A smile emerges at the corner of his mouth as he admired the artists work. He had a strange love for paintings, a sort of an escapism that he wished would swallow him whole. They expressed how he felt; trapped, alone, isolated. With a delicate finger, he touches the painting with pure awe. </p><p>Russ interrupts his admiring appreciation for the work with a snarling comment, “why did we even waste our money on these ridiculous things. You can’t even see what they are.” He steps closer, examining a painting behind Ian. </p><p>Ian wanted to scoff out loud at the stupidity. As a rich man, who vowed he knew everything about the aristocratical world, Russ really knew nothing about modern art. Ian avoids turning around, a sigh leaving his lips, “You’re wrong. They are fascinating, actually. Like in a dream, there’s truth without logic, you know?” </p><p>Russ shakes his head, “least they were cheap.” </p><p>For a moment, Ian wished that he had somewhere there who understood. Not just about the wonders of these paintings, but to understand Ian. Russ was useless, really, and didn’t give a great deal to Ian’s own thoughts. Fiona didn’t even care about his thoughts; social status was far more important than Ian. Ian wanted someone to just let him speak, give him a voice, to for once allow him to be his own person. </p><p>A porter rushes past Ian and his thoughts, wheeling in Russ’s precious safe. Russ nods towards the small wardrobe, “just in there. Be careful.” </p><p>Ian wished that the safe would end up at the bottom of the ocean; then Russ wouldn’t be so smug. </p><p>Their maid, Lisa, walks in with a blushed smile across her face. She giggles as she helps Ian unpack, “It smells so brand new. It’s like they built it just for us. Don’t you think? When I crawl into those sheets, I’ll be the first. It’s just so- so amazing, isn’t it?” </p><p>Ian stares into the young girls’ eyes, a swelling in his chest forms as he sees pure excitement and undying hope within the glistening blue orbs. Lisa was a sweetheart; typically, maids do their job and that was it. Ian liked Lisa, he let her talk and ramble with fluttering joy. He enjoyed it in fact. He sometimes wished that he could be her or be like her. The yearning to be so carefree was stuck in his mind. </p><p>Russ watches, amused, and somewhat aroused by mention of the beds. “hmm,” he snarls, trying to be seductive but it only makes Ian want to claw his eyes out. He steps behind Ian, his hands gripping the top of Ian’s shoulders as he whispered, “And what I crawl between the sheets tonight, I’ll still be the first.” </p><p>Tensing under the touch, Ian shuffles away awkwardly. “I’ve got to get ready.” </p><p>Ian hated Russ; he hated having sex with Russ. Sometimes he would just lay there, a fake smile on his face, his eyes hollow and empty. The thought of him kissing, being with, or even being touched by Russ made his skin crawl, made his eyes water with fear, and chest compress into a panic. Ian did his best to avoid it; to make excuses, and most of the time it worked. </p><p>Russ follows Ian, sternly, and forces him to turn with a tight grip on his arm, “The first and the only. Forever. Got that?”<br/>
Ian nods slowly, his throat closing with dread. Once Russ releases his grip and walks away, Ian can finally breathe. He rests himself against the wall, allowing a couple of tears to fall against his freckled cheeks. It was suffocating. Living this life where he was controlled and unable to leave. </p><p>This was his life now.<br/>
***<br/>
The breeze sweeps through Mickey’s hair, brushing against his flushed cheeks. The boat was enormous but the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He watches Iggy as he danced around the deck, taking in their luck, lavishing in the freedom that came with it. Mickey never laughed, he never smiled, he’d kill anyone that pointed that out to him, but for once, just this once, he allowed himself that privilege. They were on the Titanic, Afterall.</p><p>Leaning over the railing at the front of the boat, he and Iggy watched as the waves grew apart to make room for the ship. It was glistening under the sunset, tints of oranges at the tips of the waves. They laughed as they opened their arms, the wind blowing through their torn clothes, their legs shaking with exhilaration.<br/>
Iggy grins, a smile that Mickey hadn’t seen since his childhood, and he looks ahead with awe. “I can see the statue of Liberty from here!” </p><p>Mickey takes a second to glance over, raising an eyebrow. “You serious?” </p><p>Shrugging his shoulders, Iggy continues to chuckle in delight, “very small, of course.” </p><p>Mickey chucks his middle finger into the air, hooting, “Fuck you!” </p><p>Iggy copies the gesture, also giving the ocean, and the world, a grand “Fuck you!”</p><p>Mickey had always had a sincere hatred for the world and his place within it. But in this moment, right there, he didn’t mind it so much.<br/>
***<br/>
Ian hated the dinners. Especially when the table are bragging and congratulating eachother on each other’s successes and manliness. </p><p>“She’s the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history- “ </p><p>Ian zones out of the conversation, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He had had enough of the blessings of the Titanic; if he had to hear about how magnificent, how grand, she was he would top himself there and then. Then they’d all have something to talk about. Glancing around the table, he wondered what each of them would be like in real life. Real as in having to work for something instead of inheriting money that was dishonourably earned. </p><p>Ian feels a hand on his wrist, “You know I don’t like that, Ian.” Fiona growls with disappointment. </p><p>“He knows.” Russ remarks, snatching the smoke from Ian’s mouth and dubbing it onto the table. </p><p>Letting his mouth stay relaxed and partially open, Ian feels the need to lash out, chuck a few things. It was one smoke, and they wouldn’t even let him have that. He stays calm, like a good little rich boy. If he causes problems then itll ultimately backfire on him, or his face. Whatever Russ wants to beat first. </p><p>A waiter steps over to the table, pen and paper in hand. Before Ian can speak, Russ puts a hand into his chest pushing him back. “Okay. So, we’ll have the lamb. Rare, with a little mint sauce.” He turns to Ian, nodding. “You like lamb, don’t you, Ian?” </p><p>Ian nods through his bearing teeth. He hated lamb. He had always hated lamb. But, for now to get Russ to stop looking at him like he was a piece of meat, he liked lamb. </p><p>Lip, a newcomer who had earned his way with, what they all called, “new money”, recognises the intense dynamic between Ian and Russ. From what Ian had remembered, Lip was an outsider in this world; he had earned his own money, without inheriting, and the upper-class seemed to be disgruntled by it. They were also disgruntled by the fact he was single; no rich woman on his arm to escort his to the toilet. Ian liked that about him, he liked that Lip just didn’t give a single fuck about any of them. Ian lived his life being taught to fear those around him; to fear their judgements. Lip was probably, and probably the only, person on this table Ian would be okay with trusting. </p><p>With an awkward chuckle, Lip comments on the interaction, “You gonna cut up his food for him too? Let the kid speak, Jesus.” </p><p>Ian wants to thank him, hug him even, but by the angered look on Russ’s face he wasn’t too sure that was a good idea. </p><p>Thankfully, Lip diverted the conversation. “So, who came up with the name, Titanic? Was it you, Bruce?” </p><p>Bruce Ismay, the ships designer and total fisher for compliments, nods his head ecstatically, “Yes, I did. I wanted to convey sheer size. Size means stability, luxury, and utter safety- “ </p><p>Without stopping himself, Ian interrupts abruptly, enjoying his little touch of rebellion, “Mr. Ismay? You ever read any of Dr. Freud’s work?”<br/>
“I can’t say I know-“ </p><p>“Well,” Ian interrupts again, “you should. His ideas about male preoccupation with size might interest you. I think it’s pretty relatable to your situation, Mr. Ismay.” He smiles as he ends the sentence, his body thriving in his sudden boost of confidence. </p><p>Fiona slaps his arm in utter amazement, “Ian! What has got into you?” </p><p>With a heavy sign, but a victorious feeling settling in his stomach, Ian steps up from his chair. “Excuse me.” He stalks away, his head held high with pride.<br/>
It lasts for a couple of minutes before he realises what he had done. </p><p>Russ was not going to let this go, for sure.<br/>
***<br/>
It’s a little warmer from when they initially set sail from Southampton and the wind had finally calmed a little. Mickey had chosen to leave the prison-cell shaped rooms down in lower deck, to bask in the newly approached sunshine. He sets himself onto a bench, which back leans against the ship’s outer railings, with the wake of the Titanic spreading out into the sea behind him. Reaching to his side he grabs a leather-bound sketching pad. Directly in his eyeline he sees a father and daughter playing around the left side, with laughter brimming at their cheeks. Mickey begins to draw, his crayon brushing lightly across the page. </p><p>Mickey liked to draw. A sense of escapism from his shitty life. It wasn’t gay, no one would dare call him gay for it, he just liked doing it. He liked capturing moments that everyone else would fail to see. He draws it perfectly, a sense of humanity in that single moment. He’s good, really good, and he’s proud of it.<br/>
Iggy peeks over his shoulder nodding, “You’re so good at that shit, man.” </p><p>Mickey stops drawing for a second to put up his middle finger, “Fuck off.” </p><p>Tommy, an Irish emigrant that they had become accustom to down in the lower deck, stalks over with a discontented look on his face. Standing next to Iggy and Mickey, he watches as a waiter walks the, by far, ugliest dogs around the deck. </p><p>“You see that?” His accent thick, a smoke limp in his lips, “First-class dogs come down here to shit.” </p><p>Mickey looks up towards Tommy, shrugging a little, “Least we know where we stand, man.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Tommy laughs, “like we could forget.” </p><p>Glancing around the deck, attempting to find a draw-worthy image, and ignoring Tommy and Iggy completely in their rambling conversation beside him, Mickey scans his eyes over the upper deck, B deck he thinks (they’re all rich fucks anyway), and his sight is drawn immediately to a figure leaning against the rails.<br/>
A man stands there, a teary yet cold look on his face, his orange hair brighter than the rays of sunshine that burned into Mickey’s white skin. Interesting, Mickey thinks. This man was clearly a man of wealth; from his dress shoes, to his neatly combed hair, he was definitely a man of high calibre. It wasn’t that that surprised Mickey, though. A man of that wealth, that sheer upper-class persona, should not be looking out at the water with watery eyes, gritted teeth, and sheer depression radiating off him. Mickey felt himself biting his lip, taking in every inch of this mysterious man. He was beautiful; Mickey would not admit, but he had never seen something so breath-taking.   </p><p>This man was isolated, alone, and slumped his shoulders as if he was carrying the world on top of them. His sunken eyes and shaky hands were mesmerizing in a way that Mickey didn’t yet understand. Mickey felt strange; an urge that was utterly alien to him. He wanted to help him or find out what was going on atleast. A stranger. A damn stranger is making Mickey care for once. Or want to care. Mickey tries to shake the thoughts off, but he can’t divert his gaze. For his own sanity, he needed to stop now. He’s probably overthinking it; this kid was probably upset because he didn’t have enough wine at dinner. </p><p>But… Mickey pondered; the kid did look like an angel. An angel who was trapped. </p><p>Mickey can’t take his eyes off him, like he’s in some romantic novel. He hates it, he hates this feeling. </p><p>Iggy and Tommy notice him gazing towards the upper deck, they both burst out in hilarity, with Tommy being the first to mock, “No chance. You aint ever gonna get him.” </p><p>“Yeah, forget it, Mickey.” Iggy slaps his shoulder, “You’ll see flyin’ fucking pigs before you even get to stand next to a guy like that.” </p><p>Reluctantly, Mickey agrees. No guy like that, that looked like that, that lived like that, would ever be interested in Mickey’s appearance, never mind a conversation. This was the Ship of Dreams, but this one Mickey should forget almost entirely.<br/>
***<br/>
Ian saw his whole life as if he had already lived it. An endless parade of yachts, tiresome parties, cotillions, and polo matches. He’d always be with the same narrowminded people speaking the same mindless chatter. Ian felt as if he was standing at a great abyss, with no one to rescue him, to pull him out. No one that cared, or even noticed. </p><p>Sitting there, like before, at a table full of this mindless chatter, Ian feels himself spiralling. His foot stabs at the crab salad pushed before him, his mouth losing interest. The continuous babble around him was drowned out by his prevailing thoughts. Get out. Get out. Get out. Without realising he’s stabbed the crab meat so hard it begins to draw blood. It tells him something, a hint. Advice? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed to beable to breathe. He needed an out. He couldn’t sit there and pretend he’s okay, pretend that this was the life he wanted. With Russ. God, please not with Russ. Looking around the table, he realised he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t belong. But he’d always have to be one of them. That was not going to work. He felt numb, scared, and everything but nothing all at once. </p><p>He stands up, “Excuse me.” </p><p>That’s when he begins to run. Run like he had wanted to before he boarded the ship. Dishevelled and streaming with tears, Ian sprints along B deck, his suit slowly unfastening. He’s crying, hysterical crying, and he can’t help it. It hurt so bad. The pain, it had to stop. This life had to stop. Ian’s hair falls out of place, his hands swinging by his side as he picks up the pace. He’s angry, furious, annoyed that he couldn’t stop himself from crying. He wipes his hands erratically across his face, attempting, but failing, to stop the rush of tears. Do not let them see you cry. Ian’s shaking with emotions and he doesn’t understand why…he doesn’t want to. Hatred, self-hatred, desperation; all these emotions took over. </p><p>That’s when he sees the back of the boat. The place where his running stops.<br/>
***<br/>
Mickey finds himself on the deck, once again. He liked it there. He liked the sea air, the way the stars were brighter in the middle of the ocean, looking down on him. He liked the stillness, despite being on water, and the silence. Oh, he loved that silence. Anything was better than Iggy’s continuous snoring all night.<br/>
Laying down against the same bench he had sat on prior, Mickey stares towards the stars, taking a drag off his smoke. Thinking. Imagining. Pondering. </p><p>His retreat of silence and tranquil is suddenly stopped, to his dismay, and he sits up with a grunt to find out why. With his fists clenched he turns to the sound of shoes hammering on the deck. His hands relax as he realises the situation. The mysterious stranger. It was him. Mickey squints as he sees the man run towards the stern, his eyes rimmed red, tears spread across his face. It’s only the two of them, there, alone, and Mickey tries to pass the confusion, but he sits and observes the hopeless stranger. </p><p>Rushing past Mickey, unbeknownst to his presence, the man with the striking orange hair glides through the deserted fantail. His breath hitches with each sob, attempting to supress it. Slamming into the base of the stern, the railings hitting into his chest, Mickey watches as the man clings to the flagpole, his fingers almost white, panting and glaring out to the dark water below. </p><p> Mickey didn’t have a clue what was going on, but something was not right. </p><p>That’s when he flashes up when he witnesses the stranger climbing over the railing.<br/>
***<br/>
Ian’s there; finally, there. At the end of the boat. This was it. This was when it all ended.<br/>
Grabbing the flagpole tightly, he lifts himself up over the rail. Clumsily, he keeps his grip as his whole body stands on opposite side. Moving methodically, his body turns so his back hits the stern of the boat, his chest facing the pressuring air, his skin already frozen. That didn’t matter, though, he had to do this. Ian faces the blackness. It was dark, too dark, but he could handle it. It would all be over in a couple of minutes. He lets out a huge sob, his eyes unfocused and blurry with water. He leans out, arms straightening as he looked towards the dark depths below. Almost hypnotized by the vortex below. </p><p>It was pathetic, really. Ian had always considered himself a strong person. This was not strong. This was him choosing to be a coward. </p><p>Ian can’t yet build the courage as his arms shake faster against the breeze. He chokes out another sob. He had to do it. He was going to-</p><p>“Wouldn’t do that if I was you.” </p><p>Ian whips his head around at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It takes him a while for his eyes to focus, but when he does, he does not recognise who it is. It’s a short man, striking, dark features, astounding, glimmering blue eyes, and a casual stance that made Ian more nervous. Immediately, Ian knew that this man was from steerage; his clothes, uncombed hair, and dirt-painted skin gave a clue. Ian saw something, a glint maybe, in his eyes. It was intriguing, drawing him in, forcing him to want to listen to this stranger. </p><p>No. He was going this. He had to. Some beautiful blue-eyed stranger was not going to stop him. </p><p>“Step back.” Ian chokes a little bit, shouting towards him. “Come any closer and I’ll jump. Ya hear me?”<br/>
***<br/>
Mickey drops his smoke, stepping on it. This guy was a mess, a sobbing mess, a real total fucking mess. Maybe this guys life was so bad that he was now hanging on the back of a boat, but Mickey could not just leave him there. If he jumped and Mickey was the last person to see him, he’d be locked up for the rest of his life. For sure. Plus, this guy was totally not going to jump. </p><p>“Telling ya,” He starts, noticing the red puff of the man’s freckled cheeks, “you’re making a big mistake. Grab my hand before anyone sees you embarrassing the shit outta’ self.” He places his hand out, his tattoos clearer in the moonlight. </p><p>The red head glances down, considering the offer before shaking his head. “Leave me alone. I’ll jump.” </p><p>Mickey laughs a little, his hand still out, “Come on, man. You’re not going to do that.” </p><p>The man spits back, to Mickey’s surprise, “What do you mean, I won’t? You don’t know me? You don’t know my life?” </p><p>A little shocked, still confused, and cold as fuck, Mickey wished the kid would just grab his hand. Obviously, he was going through some bad shit, but Mickey didn’t want to last thing this guy saw before he ends it all. Mickey decides to bark back, “You would have fucking done it already.” </p><p>Laughing through his cries, the other man tightens his grip a little on the railing, his words frustrated, “You’re distracting me. Go away.” </p><p>Mickey leans his back against the railing, moving his head to the side to look at the sobbing man. There’s a twist in his stomach that he can’t yet understand, but he brushes it aside. “Well,” He relaxes, bringing out another smoke, “I was here first. You came running past like some crazy fucking weirdo. I can’t go, I’m kinda involved now, unfortunately.” </p><p>The man finally completely looks at Mickey, and Mickey can’t stop taking in every little feature. His pale, shivering skin, dotted with freckles. His plump red lips, dripping with tears. His eyes, oh those eyes, glistening under the stern running lights. Mickey couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to see that face for as long as he lived.<br/>
However, those were thoughts that he can’t express; would never express, in fact. </p><p>In a quiet whisper, the man finally answers, “Please. Just leave me alone.” </p><p>Mickey tuts, standing straight, “Sorry, Firecrotch. No can do.” He begins by kicking his shoes off, knowingly feeling the other man watching him in uncertainty. “If you’re gonna jump, do it. If you do, I’m gonna have to jump in after ya.” He strips his jacket. “In my opinion, I’d rather not freeze my balls off in the Atlantic Ocean.”<br/>
Shrugging, Mickey stands there without shoes or a jacket. In a way, he cannot believe he was ready to possibly kill himself saving a stranger. It was that orange hair. Fuck. </p><p>“What?!” The man yells, supressed by his sobs, “Are you stupid? You’d be killing yourself?”</p><p>Mickey waves his hand, “Aint a problem. I’m a good swimmer. Like a fish n’ shit.” </p><p>The man frowns, trying to process Mickey’s answer and his calmness. His voice is clearer than before as he looks back out to sea, “The fall alone would kill you.” </p><p>“Maybe, man. Maybe not. If I were you, I’d be more worried about how fucking cold that water is.” </p><p>Finally, the man’s expression changes. It’s not weeping, but it’s not better. It’s fear, genuine fear. Mickey thrived off making people frightened, but this time it didn’t feel so good. </p><p>“Cold?” The man shivers, his hands still gripping tightly to the rail, “How cold?” </p><p>Mickey folds his arms, “Freezing. Maybe’ couple degrees over.” </p><p>Mickey knew he was right; the fall would hurt. The cold? That’s hell. Freezing to literal death, in darkness, alone. It was not an inviting thought. Mickey didn’t want that for this kid, even if he didn’t have to see him again. </p><p>As if he had shaken himself back to his original plan, the man sneers, “Why the hell am I even talking to you, huh? Go away.”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t give in. No way did this ginger kid scare him. After letting him have his peace, he tries from a different angle, beginning to bob against the cold deck. “You been to Chicago?” He blurts. </p><p>The man whips his head back around, dazed, his tears puddling, “What has that got to do-“ </p><p>“Well,” Mickey begins, “The winters get real bad. Almost got frostbite once, total nightmare. Anyway, me and my cousins were out on a run, a run is where-“ </p><p>“I know what a god damn run is.” The man yells frustrated clearly that Mickey was interrupting his well-planned suicide. </p><p>Mickey, surprised, steps back a little. This kid had some balls. He didn’t know why he felt like rambling about his life, but by the way the guys breathing slowed down, it seemed to work. “Right. You don’t look like someone who knows about that shit.” He feels comfortable with this guy, it felt weird. “I went on a run with my cousins, and I ran over some ice. Total shit show. I ended up falling in, and I’m telling ya, man. Water that cold, like down there, its like a thousand knives hitting your body. You feel every one of em’. You can’t breathe. Think.” </p><p>He watches as the man’s body starts to shift uncomfortably. “Which is why I’m not exactly ecstatic about jumping in there after your ass.” </p><p>“You’re crazy.” The guy comments, his hands shifting a little to harden his grip. </p><p>Mickey laughs, making him flinch. “Psychotic? Dirty? Foul mouthed? Shit poor? Yeah. Crazy? Come on, man. I’m not the one hanging off the back of a boat, here.” He reaches out his hand, noticing the guy acknowledging his spiel. “Just grab my fucking hand, yeah? I didn’t have frozen balls on my list of things to do tonight. I need em’.” </p><p>There’s a brisk silence for about five minutes. Mickey waits patiently; confused to why he was even trying in the first place. People were never his problem; this kid was not his problem. But the way he looked out to the water as an escape, the way his lips curved and twitched as each sob broke free, Mickey felt he owed the kid something. There was something drawing him to this alien-looking kid. It was annoying, really, but he felt comfortable, safe, and open around him. Even if the kid was about to jump off the biggest boat in history; Mickey couldn’t help but feel those feelings and it irritated the shit out of him. </p><p>“Okay.” He whispers, turning a little on the railing. “Okay, fine.” </p><p>Mickey feels a smile tugging at his lips, but he supresses it. He lets his hand be touched by the soft, fragile fingers attached to the stranger he had now saved from drowning. The orange-haired boy slips his hand slowly into his, his body fully turned against the stern. Mickey likes the touch, too much, and tried to diminish the feeling of great awe that settled in his stomach. He didn’t want the kid drowning, that was it. Nothing else. </p><p>Allowing the man to fully place his hand in his, Mickey grips to him harder. They become face to face against the railing, one on each side. Up, close and personal, Mickey finally has some time to see the strangers face in full detail. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. But, as he always did, he hid those feelings. </p><p>With an airy chuckle, that Mickey wanted to capture in a bottle and keep in his pocket, the stranger finally speaks, “You always curse in every sentence?” </p><p>Mickey lets out a grin, his teeth bearing a little, “Mickey Milkovich, at your service.” </p><p>Still clutching to Mickey, Ian smiles, his voice quavering, “Ian Gallagher.” </p><p>“Gallagher, huh?” </p><p>Mickey knew of the Gallagher family. A prestigious, upper-class family that literally ruled Chicago. Mickey never thought about them, unless someone spoke about them, but it was a sheer shock that this kid, the one about to chuck himself into the Atlantic Ocean, was part of that family. He’d have to tell Iggy about this; well, apart from the whole suicide attempt and finding the kid beautiful part. </p><p>Now that Ian decided to live, the height was terrifying. Looking at Mickey, the scuff with an abrasive attitude but eyes like a blue diamonds, he felt overcome by vertigo. He’s convinced that Mickey is a somewhat angel in his dissociative state. Somehow his voice charmed him, made him feel safe, made him forget what he was actually running from. His heart beat fast as they stood so close, the railing separating them. There was a feeling, that he had been yearning for, that set itself in his chest. It was unnerving, more frightening than the cold waters beneath him, and it was exciting. </p><p>“Come on, Gallagher. Aint got all night.” Mickey beckons, using his strength to help pull Ian over. </p><p>Ian shifts his footing, his shoes suddenly slipping against the metal. He plunges downward, letting out a loud shriek that can be heard by the quartermaster above deck. Mickey, gripping his hand, is jerked towards the rail. “Fuck!” He yells. </p><p>Quivering with immense fear, Ian uses his free hand to grab a lower bar, his legs swinging below him. His fingers begin to slip in the palm of Mickey’s hand, but Mickey will not let go. “Help! Somebody help me!” He yells, in pure panic. </p><p>Minutes before he wanted to be plunged into those waters, but now, after meeting the most interesting, crude, yet mysterious man he’s going to die. Just typical. </p><p>“I’ve got, alright. I’ve got you.” Mickey tries to reassure, holding his hand with all his strength. He was not letting go. He was not fucking letting him go. Bracing himself on the railing with his other hand, Mickey tries to lift Ian’s body upwards. Ian fails, his foot slipping once more. </p><p>Ian screams, louder this time. Mickey doesn’t hear it, though. With all his might he pulls and tugs at Ian’s body; screaming internally that the kid would fling over the rail any minute. For the first time, he feels true fear. Mickey never got scared. But, in this second, when this mysterious man with sad, green balls of light was staring at him, pleading him to save him, he was truly and utterly shitting himself. </p><p>Clutching to Mickey, Ian feels like this is it. Somewhere, he finds the strength and lifts his body higher against the railing, his foot finally finding a firm grip. Mickey then lifts him, despite being half his size nearly, and drags him over the rails. They fall together in a tangled heap onto the deck, Mickey half straddling Ian. Ian stares into his eyes with a look that Mickey can’t process; was it fear? Wonder? Awe? Or was he just plain scared of the guy. </p><p>“Hey! What’s all this?” </p><p>They both turn at the voice, breathing heavily with their chests barely apart. </p><p>The quartermaster quickly runs over, grabbing Mickey off Ian, revealing him to be sobbing onto the wooden deck. His suit is torn, wet, with a couple of buttons ripped open. He looks towards Mickey, his hand gripping tighter into his creased shirt. A steerage boy with his shoes and jacket kicked off and a first-class man clearly in distress. He immediately draws his own conclusions. As Mickey begins to speak, two more seamen rush to Ian’s aid. </p><p>Mickey pushes the guys hand off, and the quartermaster yells, “Stay back, you! Don’t move an inch!” he points at the other seamen, “Fetch the Master at Arms. Now.”<br/>
Mickey puts his hands up in surrender, bored at the typical response. He looks towards Ian who is still curled in himself against the wooden deck. He just wanted to know if the kid was okay. From where he was standing, pinned by the quartermaster’s glare, Ian was still shivering, still scared. For some reason, he hated that.<br/>
***<br/>
Mickey smirks as he feels the cuffs detain his wrists, still throwing glances over to Ian who sat shivering and crying on a bench to the side. Russ and Lovejoy rush to the scene, their attention focused on the steerage criminal. </p><p>Russ grabs Mickey by the lapels, “Who do you think you are? Putting your hands on my fiancé? Huh?” He shoves Mickey in the chest. Mickey hated this guy already; no wonder Ian was chucking himself off the back of the boat. </p><p>Russ growls, noticing Mickey’s eyesight following Ian. “Look at me, you filth. What do you think you were doing?!” </p><p>Before Mickey could finally speak, the words angrily awaiting, Ian jumps up in a nervous laugh. Mickey watches, amused. “Russ, stop. It was- it was an accident, okay?” </p><p>“An accident?” Russ shouts, squinting with suspicion. </p><p>“It was…” Ian glances over to Mickey, who was almost bubbling with laughter, “stupid really. I was, uh, yeah I was leaning over and I slipped.” </p><p>They look at eachother again.</p><p>“I was leaning over, to see the… ah… propellers.” Ian stumbles with his words. “And I slipped, and I would have gone overboard… and, well, Mr. Milkovich here saved me and he almost went over himself.” </p><p>Amused, aroused, and slightly confused by Ian’s made up way of events, Mickey caught Ian’s gaze once more. He could see the fear in his eyes, the tension of his body as he stood close to Russ, the shake in his hands as he helplessly attempted to lie. </p><p>“The propellers?” Russ asked. </p><p>Ian nodded; his lips pursed. The master at arms turned to Mickey, a stern look in his eye. “Is that what happened? Mr. Milkovich?” </p><p>Ian begs him with his eyes, pleading that he will not tell what actually happened. </p><p>Mickey gives in; he couldn’t tell on that kid, not when his fiancée was clearly a monster. Mickey nods, awkwardly, “Yeah. Uh. That’s pretty much it.” </p><p>He looks at Ian a moment longer. Now they have a secret together. </p><p>As they stare a little longer, caught in a world of their own, Mickey feels a slap on his back. The master at arms, cheers loudly with a grin, “Well, the boys a hero then. Good for you, son.” </p><p>As they uncuff him, Mickey can’t help but watch Ian. Even if Ian was awkwardly looking at the cracks in the wooden deck, or the fact that Russ was stabbing him with his eyes. Mickey was mesmerised, entranced, just stuck in a world where that face only existed. He hated it; being this vulnerable. </p><p>As soon as he gets to his own bunk, he’s shaking Ian off, that’s for sure. </p><p>He’d forget about him by morning. Right? </p><p>Russ grabs Ian by the shoulders, shielding him with a blanket. “Come on, lets get you in. You must be freezing.” He gives Mickey a last glare as he turns to go back inside. </p><p>Mickey rubs his wrists, slipping his feet back into his stray shoes. The master at arms beckons Russ back with a suggestion, “Ah…Mr. Walters, perhaps a little something for the boy?” </p><p>Uncomfortably, Mickey rubs a hand at the back of his head. If anything, he wanted nothing from Russ. Not one dime. Nothing. He looks back towards Ian. </p><p>Russ interrupts his gaze, “Oh. Mr. Lovejoy. A twenty should do it.” </p><p>Mickey’s okay with that. He did save Ian’s life afterall. </p><p>However, Ian isn’t okay with that. Shock. He puts a hand on Russ’s forearm, “Is that the going rate for saving the man you love?” </p><p>“Hm,” Russ thinks out loud, “Ian is displeased. What to do?” </p><p>Russ turns back to Mickey, appraising him condescendingly. To him, Mickey was nothing but a ruffian, unwashed and ill-mannered steerage scruff. But, he thought, this could be entertaining. Clasping a hand onto Mickey’s tensed shoulders, he laughs, “I know.” </p><p>Mickey stops himself from punching the guy square in the face. </p><p>“Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow. You can tell our group your heroic tale?” </p><p>Mickey leaves no pause, staring straight towards Ian. “Count me in, man.” </p><p>Another chance to see Ian. Why the fuck not. </p><p>“Good.” Russ smiles, menacingly. </p><p>Turning to go, he places a possessive hand across Ian’s shoulders. Mickey sees as Ian physically stiffens at the touch. He wonders how Ian would feel in his arms, whether he would curl into him. Mickey stopped the thoughts; he wasn’t into Ian. He saved the kid, that was it. </p><p>Russ giggles as they walk away, mumbling towards Lovejoy, “This is going to be hilarious.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Heart of the Ocean</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ian sits before his gold-plated mirror, his cheeks still red and eyes remaining puffy. In slow movements, he begins to undress. One button at a time. Inside he’s numb but there’s a little flame igniting inside him; caused by Mickey, strangely, and he was afraid. More afraid than when he was hanging off the back of the ship. Everyone around him were fake, phony, and Mickey was the first person he had met that seemed to be real. That scared him. </p><p>Tensing, Ian hears the bedroom door creak open. It’s Russ. Not surprising, he always came to his room around that time at night. Lurking, creeping, and expecting so much from Ian. Watching the other man through the glass of his mirror, his stomach begins to churn. Russ steps forward, shutting the door behind him. </p><p>Clearing his throat, Russ finally breaks into a speech, “So, I know you’ve been in this weird mood recently. Doing all that crazy stuff, looking at goddamn propellers. I don’t pretend to want to know why, but I have something that might interest you.” </p><p>Russ grabs a black, relatively large velvet jewel case. Ian reacts numbly, uninterested in Russ’s ingenious plan to bring him back, and fails to turn to his attention. <br/>Helplessly trying to grab Ian’s focus, Russ places the box onto the dresser, sitting against it. “I was going to give this to you at the engagement party next week… but,” he places his hand over Ian’s, “I thought, after tonight, it could be a reminder of my feelings for you.” </p><p>What feelings? Ian thought. Russ was incapable of emotion. Slowly, he opens the box. That’s when he’s faced with a bracelet. Not too feminine, or too boring, but Ian immediately recognises the glistening jewel. The Heart of the Ocean. In all it’s glory. A malevolent blue stone placed delicately in the centre, with an immensity of scalpel-like inner reflections.  </p><p>Speechless, Ian places his hand against his mouth, the diamond reflecting a twinkling image within his eyes. “Russ, I—I, is it—” </p><p>“Diamond. Yes, it is. 56 carats.” Russ brags. </p><p>Ian is then struck with the haunting reality behind the gift. A gift so beautiful, so delicate but a beacon of strength, was nothing but a symbol of his entrapment. <br/>Russ grabs the bracelet, gently lifting it and fastening it around Ian’s thin, pale wrist. After placing the Jewellery, his hands roam around Ian’s shoulders, his eyes claiming him with immense hunger. Ian shifts a little awkwardly, instinctively pulling his shift further around himself. </p><p>“It was worn by Louis the Sixteenth. It’s known as Ceour de la Mer, the- “ </p><p>Ian whispers, “the Heart of the Ocean.” </p><p>Gazing at them through the mirror, Russ smirks with egotism, “It’s for royalty.” He spins Ian on his stool, “we are royalty.” </p><p>Ian gulps, a mixture of sickness and admiration flooding his mind, as he rubs a finger against the jewel. </p><p>Russ watches, his voice becoming unguarded; an emotion Ian didn’t believe existed in such a man, “Listen, Ian. I’d do anything for you. Buy you anything. There’s nothing I would not do. Just-“he places his rough hands against Ian’s cheek, causing him to stir, “You’re mine. So, open your heart to me.” </p><p>Tears fill in eyes, and not for the reason Russ hoped for. Ian knew that this gift was not a symbol of love but merely a pawn, used to shut him up, to reflect light back onto Russ. The great Russ Walters who gave his fiancée the most expensive jewel. It was purely a way to illuminate the true greatness of Russ Walters. Ian saw it as nothing but a cold stone; filled with ice. In seconds, the gift wrapped around his wrist felt like handcuffs. Trapping him in this world; a constant reminder of Russ’s ownership. Ian would never have an out. This bracelet proved that. <br/>*** <br/>The next morning, Ian finds himself wandering aimlessly towards the gates of the third-class decking area. It was foreign territory, for sure, and Ian was totally shitting himself, for sure, but he could not stand sitting through another mind-deadening dinner. That and he could not stop thinking about the crude, dark-haired boy that dragged him over that railing. Mickey. He lets his mind play with the name, wish that he could place it on the tip of his tongue. He likes it. </p><p>Unlatching the gate, he immediately senses eyes on him. Steerage men stop in their tracks, looking towards Ian with perplexed expressions. </p><p>As soon as Ian steps foot onto third-class ground, the social centre of this opposite life was stark in comparison to the opulence of first-class. It’s loud, boisterous, and total chaos, but it was undeniably thrilling. Ian passes mothers with babies, kids running freely between benches and through legs yelling in several languages but being scolded in several more. Old women holler as their coats blow open in the gusts of wind, whilst old men sit with chessboards carrying concentrated faces. Young girls youthfully giggle doing needlepoint or engrossed in dime novels. Ian smiles with awe as the by-passes an upright piano, an Irish man noodling around it, a beer in his hand. It was chaos, but it was free. No one was constricted, confined, or worried about how they looked, their reputation, or how straight their shirt and tie was. </p><p>A display of ultimate freedom. A freedom that Ian had never tasted. </p><p>Three boys, all shrieking and shouting, barge into Ian as they scramble around trying to chase a speeding rat across the deck. They leap over benches, as Ian watches intrigued by the show, and they use their shoes as a blunt weapon. As his attention faulters from the boys, his eyes wandering around the untamed havoc, Ian finally catches a glimpse at the man who saved him. </p><p>Mickey sits, relaxed and embracing the sun with his brown tweed shirt slightly open, with his sketchbook on his lap. A little girl sits beside him, entranced with the pictures that popped out to her off the pages. Ian observes before making his presence known, enjoying the softness of Mickey’s complexion, the breathlessness of his giggle, noticing the unusual contrast from when Ian had first met him. </p><p>“Hey! Give me that!” Mickey plays, grabbing the pencil the little girl had snatched from his grasp moments before. </p><p>Mickey ruffles the child’s hair and it creates a twinge in Ian’s chest. The vulgar, tough, and a totally dickish stranger he had met the night before was nothing like the man that sat in front of him. This man was different, comfortable, open, and carefree. Of course, Ian knew that this was a rare sight; that he was only giggling and gentle because he didn’t realise that Ian was stood there gauging him. But, in this moment, Ian liked what he saw; he liked it as much as the way Mickey’s foul mouth gave him that tingly feeling. </p><p>Suddenly, Ian attains that the crowd on the deck have noticed his existence. They all turn, mouth agape, staring into his soul. Ian felt like an intruder. He was, technically, but he could now imagine how others felt when he had stormed past them, judging and patronising them. Ian felt even more under scrutiny; their eyes examining every aspect of his being. </p><p>Mickey whips his head up, concerned about the sudden silence. Confused, his brow furrowed, Mickey shifts inelegantly in his position on the bench. Iggy nudges him, <br/>“Hey, man. Aint that the rich fuck we saw yesterday?” </p><p>Tommy chimes in, “Yeah. Fuck’s he doing here?” </p><p>Mickey keeps quiet, his eyes glancing at everywhere but Ian, embarrassed but impressed simultaneously. Iggy nudges him again, hooting over to Ian as he drew closer. “You lost, money bags?” </p><p>Ian walks towards the group as a hush falls among the deck. He’s suddenly self-conscious as the steerage passengers glower openly at him, some with resentment, others with awe. Ian rejects the hoot from the man standing next to Mickey and takes a breath, pretending to radiate an inch of confidence. </p><p>As he approaches, directly standing before Mickey, he stutters a little, “Mickey.” </p><p>Iggy and Tommy are floored. This upper-class boy had literally said Mickey’s name. </p><p>Mickey ascends, his hands uneasily fumbling at his sides. Rubbing his thumb against the tip of his brow, he answers, “Yeah. Uh, fuck you want?” </p><p>Ian clumsily provides an answer, a little scared at Mickey’s defensive yet brushed off demeanour. “I need to speak to you.” </p><p>Avoiding making eye contact with Ian, Mickey glances at the sea, the ground, hell he even stared at a stray shoe lying near-by. Anything to not get sucked into those eyes. “Yeah. Go ahead.” </p><p>Iggy and Tommy perk up their ears, smoking away at their cigarettes with curiosity. Ian blinks a little too fast, trying to push past his social anxiety that was triggered by the marvelled looks that stood around him. He got it. A first-class boy appearing on a third-class deck was utterly suspicious. <br/>Licking his lips, Ian finally croaks out, “In private.” </p><p>Tommy spits out his beer, eyes wide. Mickey sighs a little, nodding with what Ian thought was a hidden shyness. Cute, he thought. Mickey slips his sketchbook under his arm, the softness that was there prior hardened as he rolled his shoulders back. </p><p>Pointing a finger to the others, Mickey barks, “Close your fucking mouths. Acting like you’ve never seen a rich kid before.” Looking back to Ian, a little curve of his lip raises at the corner, “Gallagher. Let’s go.” </p><p>Iggy and Tommy examine the weird situation in pure amazement as Mickey and Ian walk further down the deck together. Iggy sips at his beer, unblinking, “What the fuck just happened?” <br/>*** <br/>Mickey and Ian walk side by side along the creaking deck. They pass people reading, giggling, and engrossed in chatter, some of whom gasp and glance curiously at the mismatched couple. Ian feels out of place in his overdressed suit that he was itching to rip off. They are both uneasy, for different reasons. </p><p>Mickey’s impressed. Ian stumbling into third-class grounds was impressive. Especially when he’s wearing shoes that were worth more than Mickey’s earnings in the last year. Ian seemed a little uneasy but unphased by his surroundings, nonetheless. Mickey was surprised that Ian had the guts to do so considering he was attempting suicide the night before. Just as he was that night, Ian looked angelic, his skin twinkling in the sunshine. </p><p>Mickey shakes the thought, breaking the silence, “Soooo…” he draws out, “what brings Ian Gallagher to the den of thieves, huh?” </p><p>Ian jolts, sputtering his words, “Mr. Milkovich, I—” </p><p>“Mickey.” Mickey abruptly interjects. “It’s Mickey.” </p><p>Mickey didn’t want to sound like an ass, but he hated the way rich folk couldn’t speak like normal people. </p><p>“Mickey,” Ian tests the name in his mouth and Mickey can’t help but feel his heart skip a beat, “I—I uh, I’m such an idiot. It took me all morning to force myself to come here, and now, I-I don’t know what the hell to say.” </p><p>Ian shakes his head, rubbing a hand across his face in embarrassment. Mickey shrugs, his face forward. “Well, spit it out, Gallagher. Got shit to do.” </p><p>The tightness in Ian’s suit grows worse. Mickey’s inability to care was, in a way, endearing. Ian had planned a whole thankful speech, perfectly placed words from beginning to end, but Mickey had a way of making him speechless. The words were lost. </p><p>Ian stumbles, yet again, “Look, I want to thank you for last night. You know, the—” </p><p>“The whole saving your ass from drowning thing. Yeah, you’re welcome.” Mickey raises his brows, his face emotionless and hardened. </p><p>Ian knows Mickey doesn’t get it. Mickey seemed the type to not receive many compliments of bravery or thankyous. Grabbing Mickey’s arm, stopping them in their tracks, he tells him, “Not just for that. For your… discretion. Not telling them about it.” </p><p>Mickey puts up his defence. It’s as if Ian thinks he owes Mickey something. “Yeah, well.” Mickey starts, pulling his arm from Ian’s grasp. “I didn’t do it for you. They’d of locked my ass up as soon as they noticed you had fucked off. Steerage guy last to see the first-class rich boy. I’m the first in line for the hang.” </p><p>Ian can see through Mickey, see through the walls that shot up in a matter of seconds. Mickey’s words were nothing more than a façade, hiding his true feelings. Ian could relate to that; Mickey was trapped as much as he was. </p><p>Ian couldn’t help but sense the judgement radiating off Mickey. Ian seemed to have it all, outwardly, and being depressed about that life was perceived as ridiculous. <br/>Loudly, Ian stops Mickey from walking again, this time with his words, “I know what you’re thinking. Poor little rich boy. What does he possibly know about misery?” </p><p>Mickey nods, his hand running through his hair. “Yep. That’s exactly what I’m fucking thinking.” </p><p>Ian sighs heavily, deflated, as he walks towards the rails at the side of the deck, bracing himself against them. Mickey follows, his expression unmoving. “But,” He blurts, sneaking a quick glance towards a sulking Ian, “I was thinking about what was so bad that it made you wanna jump off the back of a fucking boat. There’s better ways to go, man.” </p><p>As his hands relaxed against the rails, Ian lets a pause drop over them before his releases his confession, “I don’t…it wasn’t just one thing, you know?” He turns to Mickey, catching the other man staring but turn with embarrassment. He flickers his eyes back to the ocean, “It was everything. I don’t know, it was them. It’s that whole world. It’s just--- just. I feel so trapped.” </p><p>Mickey observes as Ian physically curls into himself. He’s in utter turmoil and Mickey’s trying so hard to listen to the words that tumble from his mouth, but the way Ian itches in his own skin makes him want to punch something. Why did Ian make him feel that way? He was a rich fuck moaning about his privileged life. </p><p>Ian continues, voice tainted with hurt, “I just had to get away, okay. I was so mad. At them. At myself. I didn’t even notice myself going over that rail. I just need it to stop. I needed to show them.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Mickey laughs breathlessly, “jumping off the back of the boat will sure show them.”</p><p>Ian’s laugh matches his, his hands pushing away the tears that fought their way up to the surface. Breathing out a “yeah,” he looks back out to sea. The calmness of the waves seemed to help; that and Mickey standing barely an inch away. </p><p>Mickey has an urge to place his hand on Ian’s just to stop the kid was shaking. It’s a thought he’d never wish to feel again. Trying to divert the conversation, as it was becoming way to deep and depressing for him, he asks, whipping out a smoke, “that fucking penguin last night, he one of em’?”</p><p>“Penguin?” Ian squints, bewildered. </p><p>Taking a drag from his smoke, he motions towards Ian’s pressed suit. </p><p>“Oh, Russ.” Ian spits the name out like venom, his mouth twisting in disgust. “Yeah, he’s one of them.” </p><p>Mickey, amused by Ian’s hatred towards the name, nods accordingly, “He your boyfriend?” </p><p>Mickey doesn’t care if he was Ian’s boyfriend. He really didn’t care at all about Ian’s love life. He’s trying to get this kid to talk about something other than his feelings. Well, he tried to, anyway. </p><p>Ian laments, deflating further. “Worse, actually.” </p><p>Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as Ian reveals his engagement ring, a sizable diamond that made his fingers look miniature. Mickey grabs Ian’s hand roughly, glaring at the stone. “Fuck me.” He gasps, “You would have sunk right to the fucking bottom.” </p><p>Ian finally lets out a giggle and Mickey likes the sound. A passing man scowls at Ian, who clearly didn’t belong on that deck especially with a diamond dangling off his finger. To Ian’s joy Mickey glares back, putting up his middle finger in retaliation. </p><p>This was all new to Ian. It was a totally different world, separated by wood and decks. Mickey was from a totally different world. Ian liked it, though. Mickey felt and smelt like freedom; his smile was his own, his words were his own, and Ian wanted to be like that. </p><p>“So,” Mickey breaks Ian’s train of thought, “you were going to freeze to death because you’re marrying this guy?” </p><p>Ian presses his lips together, “Yep.” </p><p>Mickey can see that there’s something Ian’s hiding. Russ was a monster, but Mickey didn’t press for what Ian was burying within himself. He wants to slap some sense into him. Something. Ian was fragile, too fragile, and Mickey could see that just by looking him. </p><p>“Don’t marry the fucker then.” </p><p>“It’s not that easy, Mickey.” Ian whines. </p><p>Mickey laughs a little, trying to lighten Ian’s evidently sunken mood, “It is that easy.” </p><p>Unexpectedly, Ian bites back, “Don’t do that, okay? Don’t act like you know what it’s like.” </p><p>Angry and irritated Gallagher? He liked it. </p><p>Mickey lets Ian have his moment until he realises that he would understand what Ian’s life was like. First-hand. His gut twists in anxiety. The dinner. Russ had invited him to their dinner. Ian should have just let him take the 20 bucks. “I’ll know tonight.” </p><p>Ian’s mouth drops open, “wait, you’re actually coming tonight?” </p><p>Flicking his smoke over the rail and into the open waters, Mickey smirks, “Course, I am. You think I’m scared of some rich fucks? Fuck off, Gallagher.” </p><p>Mickey struggled to act like he wasn’t absolutely shitting himself. The concept of eating around a table of hawks, ready to peck at his unwashed skin and snarl at his predicament, was stomach churning. Mickey would have just not turned up, but Ian’s eyes light up, his face finally showing some colour. Mickey hated to admit it, even to himself, that those eyes, that hint of a smile, was the real reason why he was dining with rich fucks that night. </p><p>“What’s this?” Ian subverts the conversation to Mickey’s sketchbook lodged beneath his arm. </p><p>Mickey protectively grasps the book, “Nothin.” </p><p>Ian’s grabbing it out from underneath his clench, asking “May I?” A rhetorical question, of course. Ian’s already flicking through the pages before Mickey can refuse. </p><p>Taking a seat on a nearby bench, Ian examines through Mickey’s sketches. Each drawing was one of beauty, an old woman’s hands, a sleeping man, a father and his daughter on the deck. Their faces were luminous and alive. A celebration of human condition. Ian’s eyes scan each marking of pencil, each fine detail pressed into the paper. </p><p>He feels as Mickey shyly takes a seat next to him, his eyes never leaving the pages, “Mickey. These are amazing. Like totally amazing.” <br/>Mickey fiddles with his fingers. Apart from Iggy, he had never really shown anyone his drawings. Really, he wasn’t showing Ian because the kid snatched the book before he could. He rubs a hand at the back of his head, uneasily, “Yeah, well, they didn’t think much in fucking Paris.” </p><p>Ignoring Mickey’s huff of self-pity, Ian continues to scan each piece of art, his eyes quickly grow wide as he turns the page. “Well, well. What’s this then?” </p><p>Ian had come across a series of nude drawings. Ian becomes transfixed by the languid beauty Mickey had created with just one pencil. The nudes are soulful, real, with expressive eyes and hands. It’s outstanding. They seem more like portraits than studies of the human form, almost uncomfortably intimate. Ian blushes, clutching the pad closer to his chest as bystanders walk past. </p><p>Ian had never seen such explicit yet enthralling drawings. Clearing his throat, he looks over to Mickey, “all of these were drawn from life?” </p><p>“Yup.” Mickey nods, trying to direct his gaze away from Ian. “One of the great things about Paris is that there is a lot of men willing to take their clothes off.” </p><p>A giggle bubbles in Ian’s throat. Mickey’s unphased openness was extraordinary. It was one of the many qualities that Mickey inhabited that drew Ian further in. </p><p>As Ian studies more drawings, Mickey shifts beside him. Ian looked divine in his bemused state of awe. It made his pants twitch, his heart compress, his chest grows immensely tighter. It wasn’t a feeling that Mickey had asked for. Hell, he didn’t ask the kid to come barging in on his seemly quiet morning. He wasn’t complaining, that’s for sure. Ian was there, sat there with him, and he was admiring his drawings like they were drawn with gold. Mickey takes in Ian’s curved plump lips, the way his eyes twitched as he examined each drawing, the way his fingertips brushed against the paper. God, Mickey thinks. He was besotted with this kid. It would never happen, that was it. Just a fantasy. Mickey wouldn’t let Ian know that, though. That would be gay. Totally gay. </p><p>Ian stops at one drawing, one of a man posed half in sunlight, half in a shadow. His hands were placed at his chin, one furled and one open like a blooming flower. Languid and graceful. Ian beams at the beauty. “You liked this one. You used him a couple of times.” </p><p>Mickey snaps towards the picture, shaking his head in response, “He had beautiful hands.” </p><p>Sounding like a giggling little kid, Ian nudges his shoulder into Mickey’s, “You had a thing. Didn’t you?” </p><p>“Fuck off, man.” Mickey shoves him back, feeling at ease with the movement. “No. Just with his hands.” </p><p>Ian cackles once more, making Mickey’s heart clench. He carefully closes the sketching pad, passing back into Mickey’s lap. With a heartfelt sigh, he smiles towards Mickey, “You see people, Mickey.” </p><p>Mickey hums in agreement, staring back with piercing eyes, “I see you, Gallagher.” </p><p>“You do?” </p><p>“Yup.” </p><p>“And?” Ian asks, genuinely interested in Mickey’s answer. </p><p>Mickey smirks, letting his barriers open a little just for that one second. “You wouldn’t have fucking jumped.” <br/>*** <br/>It had been two hours since Ian had appeared onto the third-class deck. The time flew by as the two of them laughed, bickered, and told numerous stories. Neither of them would disclose that they enjoyed each other’s company, that it felt real and natural, but they both felt it. </p><p>They end up onto the top deck; filled with upper-class with reading books, hats the size of boulders, and glares that would burn out your soul. Mickey felt out of place, not enough that it would bother him, however. The slanting late-afternoon light basks over the boat as Stewards rush to serve tea or hot cocoa. Ian and Mickey stroll aft, passing people lounging on deck chairs. </p><p>Ian blurts out, as Mickey finds out is a common occurrence with him, “I want to be like you, Mickey. Just chuck all of this away and live in some, I don’t know, garret? Poor—I mean, one of limited resources.” </p><p>Mickey scoffs, “You can say poor, man.” </p><p>“Poor then,” Ian slowly eases the words out, “poor but free.” </p><p>Mickey stirs his head in amusement, “You wouldn’t last two fucking days.” He laughs again, louder this time. “There’s no hot water. No heating, and hardly any precious caviar.” He flicks his wrist, mirroring his emphasis on the last word in his attempted impersonation of upper-class twits.  </p><p>“Hey!” Ian pushes Mickey at the chest, “I hate caviar! I’m so tired of people dismissing what I want.” </p><p>Surrendering his hands, Mickey brushes off the pleasure of feeling Ian’s hands on his chest, and loses the laughter, “Jesus. I was kidding, aright.” </p><p>Ian lets it go. It wasn’t Mickey’s fault that his family didn’t notice him, or care to notice him, and didn’t bother asking what he wanted. Mickey was just there. Ian begins to walk again, “I’m sorry. I just- I just always wanted more, you know?” </p><p>Mickey scowls, trying to process Ian Gallagher, “You’re from one of the richest families in Chicago, what else could you possibly want?” </p><p>Ian lowers his head, shamefully, “Anything. Anything but this.” <br/>*** <br/>Another hour goes by, and Ian and Mickey end up at A-deck leaning against the rail as the sunset paints them with an orange light. Shoulder to shoulder, nearly touching, they watch as the ships lights flutter on around them. </p><p>Ian’s eyes light up before turning to Mickey, who leans there casually, a smoke between his lips, “So, what happened then?” </p><p>Mickey doesn’t know why he’s telling Ian all of this. Ian had spat so much shit about his own life Mickey only felt it was necessary to give something in return. “I went down to Los Angeles. Proper nice place, man. They even had a rollercoaster. You ever seen one of those? Well, I sketched portraits for ten cents apiece.” </p><p>“Ten cents apiece?!” Ian teases. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t get the sarcasm, though. He’s too absorbed in his own story to hear. “Only did that shit in summer. Once it got cold, I was outta there. Moved to Paris where all the true artists live.” </p><p>“And?” Ian ducks his head a little. </p><p>Grinning against his smoke, Mickey jokes, “fucking shithole. Never go there.” </p><p>In this basking sunset, Ian is transfixed on Mickey. His jawline so sharp, like razorblades, covered in a light stubble that Ian wanted to rub his fingers against. His mouth. Shit, that mouth. So perfect, so luring, Ian couldn’t stop to think what it would be like pressing those against his. At first, Mickey was just a rude scruff, but on deep inspection Ian knew there was more to him. </p><p>“Why can’t I be like you, Mick?” Ian asks, not recognising the new nickname he had created for Mickey, “I want to just go into the horizon and never look back.” </p><p>Mickey’s eyes flicker as Ian shortens his name. No one ever called him that. It felt right, though. As if Ian had been calling him that for years. Mickey didn’t know whether he liked it just yet. He shuffles away a tad, moving along the rail. He sniggers, “Do it then.” </p><p>“You know I can’t.” </p><p>Mickey remembers, “Ah.” </p><p>As pause draws over them, Ian closes the gap between them, resting his hand into his hand. “Let’s say we’ll go there. To that place. Even if we only ever just talk about it.” </p><p>Mickey captures the glistening tint in Ian’s hopeful eyes. They both knew Ian would never get to away from his family, he’d never beable to release himself from their clutches. Mickey didn’t owe this kid anything; but letting him believe that he could do those things would shut him up, right? </p><p>“Alright,” Mickey begins to play along, increasing Ian’s childish giddiness, “we’re going. Let’s drink cheap beer and smoke shitty smokes all night long. Ride on some horses at the beach, but not that pussy side-saddle shit you rich folk love.” </p><p>Ian snickers, “You’ll have to show me.” </p><p>“Sure. Why not.” Mickey carries playing along. </p><p>It was kind of nice, refreshing, to see Ian genuinely happy for once. </p><p>Ian peeks over towards the horizon, “I want to learn how to curse. Like a man. Like you.” </p><p>Mickey frowns, “like fuck and shit? Aint nothing to learn, just say it, man.” </p><p>Ian lifts his brow, charmingly, causing Mickey’s pants to grow a little tighter, “Teach me.” </p><p>Mickey glances quickly from Ian’s mouth and back up to his eyes, biting his lip. Ian shouldn’t arouse him this easily. He speaks, trying to forget that feeling, “They not teach you that shit in finishing school, huh? Here.” He turns towards the water, “It’s easy. Watch.” </p><p>Ian stands beside him. Mickey winks before yelling towards the sea. “FUCK YOU!” </p><p>Pushing Ian towards the side rail, Mickey ushers, “Come on, your turn.” </p><p>Ian feels the rush of anxiety. He’s scared to curse. All his life he had been told it was forbidden, an ugly trait that was not respected by his peers. This, he believed, would give him a sense of what freedom was. He leans a little, before shouting, quieter than Mickey’s display, towards the water. “Fuck you!” </p><p>“God,” Mickey groans, placing a hand onto Ian’s tensed shoulder, “that was fucking pathetic. You’ve gotta mean it. It’s gotta come from deep in your throat.” He coaches Ian a little more. “Look at that water, yeah? Picture it as something you totally fucking hate. Like, I don’t know, Russ for example?” </p><p>Ian nods rapidly, listening to every word. “Okay, okay. I’ve got this.” </p><p>Mickey slaps his back with encouragement as Ian wets his lips in preparation. Mickey watches in slow motion as Ian lets out those two words, his smile brimming at his lips, his shoulders lifting with pride. “FUCK YOU!” Ian yells at the top of his lungs, culminating it with a victorious laugh. </p><p>“Didn’t think you had it in you, Gallagher.” </p><p>Ian shoves his shoulder a little, “Hey!”</p><p>In an array of laughter and light shoving, Ian and Mickey stumble around the deck. Ian’s warmed by Mickey’s softness, his ability to let himself go around him. Mickey doesn’t want to feel the way he does but he does. Everytime he tries to defend himself from those emotions Ian fucking Gallagher smashes right through. He’ll keep quiet for now. </p><p>Ian’s smile suddenly switches to fear, resembling a deer in the headlights. Mickey follows his gaze, turning on his toes. </p><p>It’s Fiona. It’s Lip. Both walking towards them after witnessing their yelling. Ian becomes instantly composed, playing his role. Mickey wrinkles his nose. Ian didn’t look right like that. </p><p>Ian smiles, a fake a smile, “Fiona. This is Mickey Milkovich.” </p><p>Fiona condescendingly runs her eyes over Mickey, “Charmed I’m sure.” </p><p>Lip and the others that followed them were captivated by Mickey and gracious towards him. Fiona, however, looked at him like an insect. A dangerous insect which must be squashed, quickly. </p><p>Mickey hates her already. Was it okay to punch a woman if she was that much of a bitch? Ian would say no, for sure, so Mickey decides against it. </p><p>Lip places his hand out, grabbing Mickey’s with ease. “Well, Mickey. Seems like you’re the right man to have around.” </p><p>Just as Mickey goes to reply the alarm signalling dinner blares out. Lip jumps out of his skin nearly, “Jesus. Why do they always insist on blaring that goddamn horn every night.” </p><p>Mickey glares towards this Lip character. He seemed different, not too up his ass like the rest of them. </p><p>Ian brushes his arm against Mickey’s as he walks towards his sister, “Shall we go get dressed, Fiona?” </p><p>Looking over his shoulder, Ian looks to Mickey with twinkling eyes, “See you at dinner, yeah?” </p><p>As they all leave, a little entourage following Ian through the dining room, Mickey can’t stop the smile emerging across his cheeks. God damn it. Ian made him smile like an idiot too. Jesus, he fucking hated this. As his smile fails to wear, Lip steps closer to him, waving a hand in front of his face. </p><p>“Aye,” Lip calls out to him again, Mickey doesn’t look, “you have any idea what the hell you’re doing?” </p><p>Mickey can still see Ian. Well, the back of him. He didn’t want to be one of those who stare until the other leaves the room, but Ian was captivating. Why was Mickey so fucking girlish about this? How did one stupid, suicidal ginger make his stomach twist and turn and have him following him with eyes until he walked out of his eyeline? When did Mickey turn so fucking soppy? Jesus.  </p><p>Mickey shakes his head, still grinning. “Nope. Don’t really give a shit.” </p><p>“Well,” Lip grabs Mickey’s shoulder, bringing him back to reality, “You’re going straight into the snake pit. I hope you’re ready, Milkovich.” He glances at Mickey’s worn appearance, “Okay. What are you planning on wearing?” </p><p>Mickey shrugs, pulling at his woollen clothes, “Uh, well, this?” </p><p>Lip’s expression spreads to pure bemusement, “You serious?” </p><p>“No. I’ve got five fucking suits shoved into my suitcase in steerage. What do you think?” </p><p>“I figured.” Lip hums, finger at his lips, thinking. </p><p>Mickey looks down at his clothes. He hadn’t even thought about that. Ian had been floating around him all day in a crisp, pressed suit and he didn’t even take a second to think that maybe, just maybe, that possibly stealing a suit or just finding one would be a good idea. If Lip was right, they would all eat him alive if he turned up in woollen slacks. </p><p>Lip pushes Mickey towards the doors Ian had previously entered. “Come with me. I’ve got something.” <br/>Mickey complies, unsure what to expect. <br/>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Making it Count</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mickey feels immediately displaced, central within a room full of men’s suits and formal wear. Mickey had never seen such grand clothes; all freshly pressed, tailored to perfection, and the vast amount strewn around the place was bemusing. How could one person own so many suits? Mickey lived in the same limited number of tweed shirts and woollen slacks. It wasn’t impressive. To Mickey, it was massively puzzling. Why waste so much money and twenty suits that look exactly the fucking same. It was plain stupid. </p><p>If Mickey was seeing right, Lip was enjoying his display of awkwardness. Mickey’s stood before a mirror, dressed in a full tux without the two-button jacket and white tie. For a moment, he feels a smile tug at his lips. This was a sight he had never believed to imagine. </p><p>Lip tugs at the bottom of the pants, “How do these feel?” </p><p>Mickey shifts uncomfortably, “You must have the world’s smallest ass because these fuckers are tight.” He adjusts the front, “really fucking tight.” </p><p>With a scoff, Lip responds, “Yeah, well. That’s how the rich want you to feel.” He picks up the white tie laid against the dresser, continuing his mocking speech, “Constricted. Unable to breathe? They can’t do that shit to your face but they sure as hell can make you a suit to do it.” </p><p>Mickey raises a shocked brow, “Aye. So rich folk can curse now?” </p><p>Lip tugs Mickey by the shoulder, turning him towards him as he places the tie around Mickey’s neck, “I’m not one of them.” </p><p>“Sure, looks like it.” Mickey stabs. </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Lip quickly ties the tie up into a bow. “I’m not one of them.” He repeats, deadpan. “I may look like them, sometimes talk like them, and sit with them. But I’m not fucking one of them.” </p><p>Mickey allows Lip to have his monumental outburst and turns back towards the mirror. He’s baffled by the sight of his reflection. Shit. He did scrub up well for a poor fuck. Unfortunately, Lip was right. The suit was constricting, it made his balls shrink. Mickey couldn’t help but think that there was a single chance that maybe, just maybe, he would be fit enough to be in presence of Gallagher. </p><p>Clearing his throat, running his hand through his hair to gel it back smartly, Mickey asks, “So, why you helping me, man? You don’t owe me shit.” </p><p>“I could ask you the same thing.” Lip glances to Mickey, fixing his own suit. </p><p>“Well,” Mickey turns, his eyes flashing a tint of red, “I’m asking you.” </p><p>Lip seems unphased by Mickey’s attempt of intimidation and pats him on the back as he begins clearing the room around them. He speaks as he declutters, “I’ve seen the way he acts around you.” </p><p>Mickey becomes defensive, “who the fuck you talking about?” </p><p>“Ian.” Lip stops for a moment, letting Mickey remember what this whole suit fitting was about. “You know? The redhead that you were drooling over back there?” </p><p>Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline once more, “Drooling? No one was fucking drooling. Get your eyes checked, man. You’re having hallucinations or some shit.”</p><p>Mickey knows he’s getting defensive. So, what if that dick, angel looking, fucker Ian Gallagher made him smile. It didn’t mean anything. Though, he did make his heart feel like it was being taken back by a rush of waves, pushing and throwing his emotions in all sorts of directions. But it didn’t mean anything. It did not. </p><p>Attending this dinner was purely a plot to show the rich fuck’s who not to mess with. </p><p>Lip brings him back to reality, rambling on, “Okay, Mickey. Sure.” He stands behind Mickey. “I’ve seen the way he acts around you. He’s—he’s free. He can smile. I haven’t seen that smile ever when he’s around that controlling freak, Russ.” He scowls at the memories, “the boy can’t even choose what he eats without that idiot butting in. You make him, I don’t know, happier.” </p><p>Mickey scoffs at the idea; Ian surely didn’t enjoy his company that much. “Like fuck I do.” </p><p>Slapping an encouraging hand against Mickey’s back, Lip speaks more quietly, “You do.” </p><p>For the first time since he’s met Ian, he feels the fantasy becoming reality. The thoughts would never touch his lips, or be released into the air, but it was stomach churningly sweet that maybe he did have a chance in Ian Gallagher. Maybe, just maybe, Ian saw him beyond the bravado and dirty, unwashed skin. </p><p>Maybe, just maybe. </p><p>*** <br/>By Edwardian standards, Mickey looked badass. Inside he was a shivering, nervous wreck heading into a den of hawks preparing to nip, spit, and rip their vicious teeth into him. He adjusted himself in his newly, borrowed, white-tie suit, as he dashed along the deck to the golden panelled doors that Lip had given him strict instructions to enter. </p><p>Mickey had tricks to hide his fright; a fist, a sneer, or even a beer bottle would soon calm his splattering thoughts. However, this night he had to remain gentlemanly. This night he had to show the rich fucks that he wasn’t just a roaming traveller with no future. This was the night he had to show Ian that --- </p><p>The thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a steward bowing as he opened the door to the first-class entrance. “Good evening, sir.” </p><p>Mickey smoothly plays into his role, nodding with the right degree of disdain that he had witnessed many first-class men doing over the years. This was easy, he thought. Just act like everyone in the room is inferior; keep your nose up like you’re smelling shit and narrow your eyes in judgement. </p><p>Easy. </p><p>However, his mouth falls agape as he enters A deck, standing at the tip of the grand staircase that engulfed the room almost entirely. Mickey’s well-planned act faltered slightly as his breath hitched in disbelief, caused by the splendour spread out before him. Overhead is the enormous glass dome, holding a crystal chandelier at its centre. Mickey placed his hand against the banister at the side of the staircase, balancing himself as he slowly descended them. The staircase itself was the ultimate epitome of the opulent naval architecture of the time. Mickey, a man that had seen a variety of places, remained flabbergasted by the beauty that beheld such a room. </p><p>It was a vast contrast to the space on the lower decks. Whilst these walls were painted with accuracy, care, and splattered with beautiful paintings and specks of gold, the lower decks were enclosed rooms of isolation, dullness, and of limited space. Mickey felt himself become furtherly separated from this life, from Ian. It was only luck that had landed him on that staircase. And, as everyone knew, luck doesn’t always last. </p><p>For now, Mickey was going to enjoy it. </p><p>Eyes growing wide, Mickey examines the women in their floor length gowns, modelling elaborate hairstyles and abundant jewellery. The gentleman followed, standing with one hand behind their backs, nodding politely. Mickey reaches the bottom of the stairs, his feet touching ground he had never dreamed to be upon. Several men nod a perfunctory greeting, all oblivious to his real social status. Mickey plays his role, almost too much, and nods back. </p><p>The suit became a weapon of disguise. Mickey liked the idea of the inability for people to see the real him. For one night, Mickey could walk past the people who had condescendingly judged him in the past with a nod, a smile, and expect it to be reciprocated. Rich people, he thought, were stupid fucking people. If you had a suit, and have the appearance of wealth, they accepted you. </p><p>Mickey felt like a spy. A spy in a tight suit and spit-gelled hair. </p><p>Russ comes down the staircase, Fiona latched to his arms, causing Mickey to cringe with a tinge of sudden loathing. In reluctance, Mickey steps forward to greet them. As expected, they walk straight past him with an arrogance that made Mickey seethe. Mickey hasn’t got chance to be amused by the two because as they move out of view a beacon of light climbs down the steps. Ian. </p><p>Mickey pleads for the feeling in his chest to evaporate; the unusual sense of breathlessness invading all his senses. Ian, a vison of innocence and beauty, carefully watches his movement as he takes to each step. Mickey’s eyes wander over the man, his breath hitching even more now at the sight of Ian all tucked into a suit that hugged his broad, statue-like, frame. Licking his lips, Mickey imprints the image into his memory. Ian looked --- no, was something. Truly something magnificent in this light. Mickey feels himself drawn into a hypnotic trance of awe, and a yearning to rip his clothes off. </p><p>Shaking the invading desired thoughts, Mickey observes as Ian embraced the grandness of the room surrounding them, his eyes watering with the similar emotion Mickey had felt while entering. Surprised, as Mickey had assumed Ian had walked through staircases as grand as that many times throughout his life, Mickey steps forward allowing Ian to acknowledge his presence. </p><p>Instantaneously, Ian catches his eye, looking at Mickey as if he had been the only other person in the room. Mickey itches with a shyness he had never felt before as Ian’s eyes trail over his fitted suit and slick appearance. A smile emerges against Ian’s lips, his face lighting up, his eyes glowing with veneration. Mickey hates that smile. He tries to tell himself that, anyway. That smile made his bones tingle, his hands fidget, and his mouth water. Mickey had already been caught literally drooling over the guy; he could not be seen literally shaking with anticipation as Ian reached the bottom of the stairs. </p><p>For now, he’d focus on the upcoming terror that was a formal dinner surrounded by upper-class twits. </p><p>“Mickey.” Ian finally breathes. </p><p>Mickey stutters a little, before composing himself. “Gallagher.” </p><p>As Ian approaches him, he places his hand behind his back imitating the gentleman’s stance. </p><p>Ian grins proudly, placing his pale hand towards Mickey, in a way that looked like he was offering Mickey to kiss it. A gesture that Mickey had usually recoiled at. </p><p>Mickey feels his true self poking back through, as he grunts, “Put your fucking hand away.” </p><p>Ian giggles, keeping his hand forward. “Kiss it.” </p><p>Mickey becomes distracted by Ian’s bubbling laughter, still liking the sound, and shakes his head in a disgruntled manner. “Fuck off. I’m not kissing shit.” </p><p>It doesn’t disturb Ian’s determination, thought. Ian keeps pushing, wiggling his brows, “Mickey. You’re a first-class gentleman tonight. You must kiss my hand. It’s—” he waves his free hand, “gentlemanly.” </p><p>Mickey huffs a laugh. Ian was terrible at describing things; like his bullshit story about looking at propellers. He hesitates, noticing Ian’s face screwed up into a you’re going to do it now look. “Goddamn it.” Mickey moans, before grabbing Ian’s hand, ignoring the giggles beside him, and pressing his lips against the pale skin. He hated the way he liked the delicate touch of Ian’s soft skin against his lips. </p><p>Ian pulls his hand back, the stupid smile still plastered against his cheeks. “Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” </p><p>Grunting in response, Mickey attempts to pull back his dignity. Ian was beaming beside him, as he always did that irritated Mickey a lot. Mickey places his hand back behind him, his discomfort continuing to worsen. Ian’s smile dims to a stern look, tapping at Russ’ shoulder. </p><p>Russ turns around, clearly annoyed the interruption, and Ian introduces Mickey, hopeful, “Russ. You remember Micke—Mr Milkovich, don’t you?”  </p><p>Mickey stifles his amusement at Ian’s slip of the tongue. He liked his name amongst Ian’s lips. </p><p>Caught off guard, Russ glares towards Mickey and his new, cleaned up appearance. “Jesus, Milkovich. I didn’t recognise you.” </p><p>Before he can reply, Russ laughs contemptuously, “Truly amazing. You could almost pass for a gentleman.” </p><p>Feeling smaller than ever, Mickey gives Russ a sarcastic smile. Fiona was hushing her laughter from behind her palm. In any normal situation, Mickey would have easily launched towards Russ, slamming his head against the banister of that oh-so-grand staircase. However, the way Ian nudged him a little with his shoulder, a little sign of reassurance, Mickey bided against it. </p><p>Ian had a way to stop Mickey from ripping Russ’ face off. </p><p>Ian senses Mickey’s contempt, hoping not to cause a scene, and he nudges Mickey a little. Russ was a dick, but Ian didn’t want Mickey proving to Fiona and the others that he was just a barbaric lower-class animal. Ian signals towards the entrance of the reception room, “Shall we?” </p><p>Feeling Mickey deflate with ease, Ian follows the group as they step into the next room. Ian felt badly for Mickey, for bringing him into this world so suddenly, because he knew how Mickey would be feeling now. Suffocated, tense, and even scared. Mickey didn’t look like a person that could be scared easily, or ever, but Ian felt Mickey’s anxiety radiating off him. </p><p>As they step through, Lip approaches them a glass of icy beer in his hand. He grins as he sees Mickey walking towards, his pride bursting from his suit at his creation. </p><p>As they head towards the dining area, he steps towards Mickey, talking lowly, “Aint nothin’ too it, is there, man?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Mickey replies, emotionless, “you just look like a fucking pallbearer and keep your nose up.” </p><p>Lip tugs at Mickey’s arm, stopping him in his tracks, with a serious tone, “Remember, the only thing these fuckers respect is money. Act like you’ve got a lot of it, and you’re in the club.” </p><p>Ripping his arm from Lip’s grip, quietly thanking the man in his head for his mere selfless helpfulness, Mickey nods. “Got it.” Mickey could do this. Act like you’ve got millions. Easy. Act like you sit around smoking cigars and doing virtually nothing. Easy. Acting like you’re so far up your fucking ass you can’t even see what’s in front of you. Easy. </p><p>Lips powers ahead as Ian slips closer next to Mickey, whispering into his ear when they begin the path into the swirling throng. Mickey flinches at the tickle of the whisper, rejecting the need to push Ian away. </p><p>Ian releases a quiet explanation of the people around them, pointing towards a couple of men that were scattered around, chattering and admiring eachother’ s successes, “that’s John Jacob Astor the richest man on the ship. Total perv. His little wifey there,” Ian points out a young girl who holds herself gracefully, her hands clutching to the puff of her dress, “is my age. Totally pregnant and hiding it not so well.” </p><p>Mickey enjoys Ian’s observing skills, chuckling, “Scandalous.” </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Ian carries on with his spiel, passionate, “Over there,” he nods over towards another couple, “Sir Cosmo and Lucile, Lady Duff-Gordon. She designs naughty lingerie, among other talents.” Ian laughs to himself, not noticing Mickey’s unphased expression, “You wouldn’t believe how popular they are with the royals.” </p><p>As much as Mickey enjoyed Ian’s passionate way of speaking, he hated learning anything about the people around him. They were irrelevant. They were nothing but rich fucks who enjoyed the poverty and deprivation of the lower masses. Ian, of course, didn’t come into that. </p><p>“Hm,” Mickey nods, a little intimated – not that he would express that. </p><p>Meanwhile, Russ accepted the praise of his male counterparts, who looked over at Ian as if he was a prized, show horse. They all stood shaking Russ’ hands, filled with pride or jealously, and basked in their own brilliance. </p><p>Sir Cosmo nods in satisfaction, “Walters, he’s splendid.” </p><p>Russ bears a proud grin, “He is, isn’t he?” </p><p>The master of arms, who had previously been handcuffing Mickey, steps into the conversation, agreeing with the sexualisation of Ian. “You sure are a lucky man, Russ. It can only be luck.” </p><p>Fiona tattles over, overhearing the talk. “Oh, please,” she comments, gripping onto Russ’s arms with desperation and coquettishly, “How can you say that? Russ Walters is a total catch.” </p><p>Ian merely catches the end of his sister’s comment, too uninterested to even wonder what the contents of her sentence was. He continues to stick close to Mickey, at ease with his presence suddenly being there. </p><p>They run into the Astor’s as they go through the ornate double doors before them. Ian, yet again to Mickey’s dismay, introduces Mickey. “J.J, Madeleine, this is Mickey Milkovich.” </p><p>Mickey started to appreciate Ian’s need to introduce him to everyone, or to show him off, and how his eyes beamed with desire, admiration, and pride everytime he allowed others to acknowledge who Mickey was. Mickey didn’t want to like it, he shouldn’t like it, but Ian was making it pretty hard to not like it. </p><p>Astor, similarly, to Russ in terms of arrogance, shakes Mickey’s hand. “Milkovich? Are you from the Boston Milkovich’s?” </p><p>“No.” Mickey plays, amused by the ability to fit into such a lifestyle so easily, “the Southside Milkovich’s, actually.” </p><p>Astor nods knowingly, as if he knew of Mickey’s imaginary wealth, and then changes his expression to puzzlement. Mickey walks off proudly, enjoying his ability to slip within the cracks and float seamlessly through the first-class lounge without blowing his cover. </p><p>They step into the main dining lounge. Like a ballroom at a royal palace, the dining area was alive and lit by a constellation of chandeliers, full of elegantly dressed people in an atmosphere of musical beauty played by the Wallace Hartley’s small orchestra. Ian and Mickey follow the entourage as they pick out a large table, directly next to the windows that emphasises the entirety of the ocean beyond them. </p><p>Mickey, of course, was extremely nervous. He didn’t faulter, though. Those around him assumed he was one of them. A young captain of industry perhaps. New money, like Lip, of course. It didn’t matter. Mickey was part of the club, to his amusement. </p><p>Fiona could always be counted upon to press the wound. </p><p>“Tell us Mickey what the accommodation down in steerage is like?” Fiona jabs, her eyes igniting with malicious intentions, “I heard it’s quite good down there.” </p><p>Mickey sits opposite to Ian, wedged between Lip and the master of arms. Ian flanked between Russ and Mr Andrews – the ships designer – and looks over to Mickey apologetically. The dinner, prior to Fiona’s desire to disregard Mickey, was going smoothly. Mickey knew that this would happen. It wasn’t surprising that they’d be so bitter. </p><p>Clearing his throat, Mickey bites back, “The best I’ve seen, ma’am.” He glances over to Ian, who is hiding his laughter behind his fist. Mickey smiles, fake of course, “Hardly any rats.” </p><p>Ian then motions surreptitiously for Mickey to lift his napkin off his plate. Mickey copies, thankful. </p><p>Russ lifts his glass, a malevolent smile at the brim, “Mr Milkovich is joining us from third-class.” Flickering his eyes over to Mickey, gesturing over as if Mickey was a child, “He was some assistance to my Fiancé last night.”  </p><p>As Russ finishes the humiliation of Mickey’s character, whispers are exchanged around the table. Some confused, some intrigued. Mickey becomes the subject of furtive glances. Now, not to Mickey’s surprise, they became terribly liberal and dangerous. Ian ducks his head, shamefully. Mickey just listens to their disgust, humoured by it. </p><p>One man, old but definitely rich with wealth and prejudice, pipes up, “What is this? Who thought of bringing this… this bohemian here?” </p><p>Mickey wants to curse, push the guy off his high horse, but he’s respectable now. Remember. Before he could calmly respond to such words, the waiter hovers above him, a small plate in hand, “How do you take your caviar, sir?” </p><p>Russ buts in, answering for him, “Just a soupcon of lemon,” he looks over to Mickey, smirking, “it improves the flavour.” </p><p>Mickey notices what this guy was doing; trying to patronise him, better him, just because he knew what went with precious caviar. Mickey smirks to himself, reliving Ian’s distaste for the food. He shakes his head towards the waiter, “None for me, thanks.” </p><p>Russ angrily chews into his own food as Mickey puts on the worst posh accent. “Never did like it much.” </p><p>Mickey looks over to Ian, pokerfaced and proud, and Ian smiles. </p><p>Fiona shoots another question towards Mickey, as if scoring points on who had the upper hand, “Where exactly do you live, Mr. Milkovich?”  </p><p>Mickey’s name falls against her lips like venom. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t think of an answer and lets the words roll off the tongue, charming them. “Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic.” Some gasp, some sit closer in awe, “After that. Well, I’m guess I’m on God’s fucking good humour.” </p><p>Lip kick’s Mickey’s leg under the table, causing him to jerk in his seat. Mickey straightens himself up, secretly wishing a fist to Lip’s face because of the unexpected action. Ian sneaks’ glances across the table, hidden from Russ’s domineering gaze. Mickey catches a couple, his lips curling into a smile each time Ian tried to brush it off. Ian hadn’t spoken much and Mickey felt unnerved; Ian was a talker, he had talked his ear off the first time they met, but right now he looked as if he had been trapped into a little box, forbidden to speak. </p><p>Salad is suddenly served. Mickey doesn’t understand the need for more than two meals at once, especially when they were portioned so poorly. He reaches for a fork, stopping his action when Ian gives him a look that directs his attention to pick the salad fork, prompting him with his eyes. Mickey changes forks. One fork was not enough? Mickey thought, barely remembering if he had ever even owned a fork. </p><p>Fiona takes her shot, swallowing some salad, “So, do you find that type of existence appealing?” </p><p>Mickey grabs the little roll of bread by his plate, biting a chunk out as he responded unphased, “Well, it’s a big world. Why not see all of it?” He swallows, going for another bite, “You can’t wait for shit to happen to you. You never know what you’re going to get dealt next.” </p><p>Looking over at Ian’s transfixed stare, he continues with his voice softer, “You gotta take life as it comes to you, you know? To make each day count.” </p><p>Lip raises his glass, “Agreed.” </p><p>The men around the table, par Russ, also raise their glasses, nodding with agreement to Mickey’s statement, “here, here!” </p><p>Ian, amused and brimming with desire, raises his own glass. He looked at Mickey like he was a bright shooting star—unbelievable, yet beautiful. Mickey keeps his stare, locking his eyes towards Ian’s slowly moving lips as he toasted, “To making it count.”</p><p>Mickey coughs a little, keeping his composure, as his chest tightened. Fiona, however, annoyed at the fact he had scored a point, pressed him further. “How is it you have means to travel?” </p><p>Despite having an answer already planned out, Mickey couldn’t help but yearn to jump across the table and strangle Fiona. The questions were irritating and set in place just to make Mickey feel like utter shit. Mickey wouldn’t crack, he wouldn’t let such a bunch see him crack, so he promised himself to stay cool. Cool as a cucumber, he repeats in his mind. </p><p>Leaning back in his chair, Mickey responds smoothly, “Y’know, I work from place to place. Tramp steamers and such. The way that all of us slaves travel.” Mickey notices Ian wince, “but I won my ticket on Titanic in a lucky hand of poker.” </p><p>Mickey keeps his gaze on Ian, “A very lucky hand.” </p><p>Russ sneers, his comment breaking Ian and Mickey’s sudden intense stare, “A real man makes his own luck. No stupid pack of playing cards can do that.” Fiona hums with agreement. </p><p>Time slowly passes by, the guests chattering away and continuing to ask Mickey numerous questions in interest and amazement. Desert had been served and a waiter then arrives with cigars in a humidor on a wheeled cart. The men around the table begin clipping ends and lighting. Mickey imitates the rest of the table as they all step up and out of their seats. </p><p>Ian briskly walks over, placing his hand at the small of Mickey’s back. Mickey feels his cheeks fire up red. Ian’s voice runs over, smoothly, into his ear, “This is where they all vacate to the Smoking Room.”</p><p>Russ steps up, immediately after Mickey processes Ian’s words, “Join me for a brandy, gentleman?” </p><p>Lowly, Ian continues to commentate on the situation before them, “Yep. They retreat into a cloud of smoke and congratulate eachother and how brilliant they are. Totally narcissistic.” </p><p>Mickey looks up into Ian’s eyes, impressed by Ian’s sneakily manner, and is drawn back to the table as Russ asks him, “You are coming, Milkovich?” He laughs a little with the rest of the men, “You’re not staying with these saps, are you? Knitting and drinking tea.” </p><p>In his eyes, smoking lousy cigars and drinking brandy was not a real man. Mickey knew how to use his fists and get from place to place without a single glass of that shit stuff. Mickey in fact did want to stay with the saps; well, with Ian. He felt so twisted, pleading that the thoughts would fuck off, but all he could, for now, was to let the thoughts run their course. </p><p>Handing a pen back to Lip, Mickey shakes his head, trying to behave courteously, “No, thanks. I’m heading back.” </p><p>Russ gets into Mickey’s space, smiling with menacing ease, “Yeah. Probably for the best. It’s all business and politics. Wouldn’t interest,” he looks Mickey up and down with a sneer, “your sort.” </p><p>Mickey can sense Ian’s apologetic eyes, yet again, and he wants to slap it off his face. He hated that pitiful look. Mickey didn’t need pity. All he needed was for Russ to get the hell out of his space. It didn’t offend him; he had lived his whole life with comments like that circulating around him. To Ian, it was knew, but for Mickey it was a daily routine. </p><p>With a fake smile, Russ slaps Mickey’s back. “Good for you to come.” </p><p>Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose as Russ walks off. One of these days he’d have to pound the guy until he couldn’t breathe anymore. </p><p>Ian steps closer, pulling Mickey’s hand away from his face – only to be shoved off a little. “Mick, can you stay?” Ian’s pleading, his words so open and unbelievable to Mickey. </p><p>Mickey rejects the offer, for now, and shakes his head. “I’ve gotta go row with the other slaves.” </p><p>Mickey leers at Ian’s sunken look. Ian Gallagher was a drama queen. With a sigh, he leans down and grabs Ian’s fidgeting hand, pressing his lips against his skin as he had done prior. As he lands the kiss, he slips the note into Ian’s palm. </p><p>Ian feels the crumpled paper, looking up with confused. “Mick—” </p><p>“Later, Gallagher.” Mickey clicks his tongue, giving a wave as he swept through the exit. </p><p>Opening the note covertly, Ian’s heart quickens with each beat. </p><p>His fingers shake as he pulls the paper open. </p><p>“Make it count. Meet me at the clock."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Wanna dance?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ian’s eyes grow with ultimate astonishment as he reads the crumpled note repeatedly. The voices around him remain muffled as he runs through all the thoughts battling in his head. Glancing towards the door Mickey had just waltzed out of, he weighs up the pros and cons of actually following through with Mickey’s offer. There was no way he could walk out of the place and wander off with Mickey without being visibly seen, but the rising sensation to rebel and to do just that was far more powerful.  </p><p>Ian adjusts himself before announcing to the other guests, “I’m going for a walk.” </p><p>Fiona doesn’t turn her head to his words, waving a hand, “Just don’t be looking at those propellers again.” </p><p>Ian takes that as his answer. Fiona didn’t care where he was, what he was doing, not really. The guests around them were far more interesting than his whereabouts. With a nod, Ian begins the path towards the grand staircase. Mickey had said the clock. So, he was going to the clock. He smiled as he passed each passenger, feeling a sense of empowerment and rebellious taint. It was a recurring theme that Mickey would bring that side out of him; a side that he had previously been oblivious to. </p><p>Crossing the A-deck foyer, Ian catches a glimpse of Mickey perched at the top of the staircase, his back turned. Overhead is the crystal dome as Mickey studies the ornate clock with its carved features and intricate details. It softly strikes the hour. Ian stops at the bottom, his eyes relishing in the sight above him. Just as he felt when he had first latched eyes on Mickey all suited up in a tight, fitted tux, his hair pushed back and his eyes glimmering in blue, Ian couldn’t work out whether it was the sea-sickness caused by the waves below, or his stomach doing summersaults. </p><p>Ian begins the climb, his heart rapidly thumping, his hands shaking by his side. Mickey made him nervous; the note made him even more nervous. What did Mickey have planned? Ian sweeps up the steps, controlling his hitched breathing. Mickey must sense him behind him, failing to supress his widening grin as he turns from his current position. </p><p>Mickey keeps his smile, offering his hand, “So, you wanna go to a real fucking party?”<br/>*** <br/>The third-class general room is crammed with crowds, alive with music, laughter and raucous cheering. A band is gathered by the upright piano, that resembled the one Ian had seen on upper deck the previous day. They honked out stomping music on fiddles, accordion’s and a tambourine. People of all ages danced and jigged, drinking and spilling beers, smoking and laughing, some even brawling. </p><p>Tommy hands Ian a pint of stout, nodding his head in beat to the boisterous Irish melodies. It was vast difference to the activities in upper-class. No one cared for how they looked, acted, or who they were linking arms with as they circled the room in a dance. Ian hoists back the drink, his taste buds thoroughly enjoying this new taste of rebellion. Ian wouldn’t have dreamed to be in such an atmosphere, he hadn’t even seen such things. This was all new to him - laughter, dancing, and the overwhelming sense of natural happiness. </p><p>Mickey grabs Ian’s glass, protectively, pulling it away from his lips, “Calm the fuck down, Gallagher. Don’t wanna be carrying your drunk ass back to first-class.” </p><p> Ian pouts out his bottom lip, “What?” his expression then changes to a smirk, “You think a first-class man can’t drink?” </p><p>Ian felt Mickey tense as he placed his body a little closer, attempting to raise his voice over the loud music bellowing around them. He knew Mickey was sensitive to personal space; especially when Ian intended on invading it every five minutes. Ian chuckled to himself, grabbing his drink back and downing the foamy remains. </p><p>“No.” Mickey grunts, gulping a fair amount of his own drink, “I’m saying you can’t drink.” </p><p>Ian loves it when Mickey tries to avoid eye contact. Ian loves it when Mickey tries to act like he’s indestructible and imperceptible to Ian’s charms. Yes, he had alcohol running through his veins, driving his confidence levels rocketing, but Ian liked to see Mickey squirm at his nonchalant attitude to his attempts of intimidation. </p><p>“Oh, please.” Ian slurs a little, enjoying the way Mickey’s suit had slowly become creased and ruffled, “I could drink you under the table, Milkovich.” </p><p>Mickey scoffs, loud enough for Ian to hear over the music, “You wish.” </p><p>Ian takes this as a challenge. He had never been given an opportunity to prove himself before. He didn’t want Mickey thinking he was nothing but a sappy, weak upper-class rich fuck? Did he? He grabs another glass of beer from the table they were stood by. This was his chance. Maybe he’d regret it later, or in the morning when he wants to smash his head against a wall, but for now he wanted to show Mickey he wasn’t just a penguin in a suit. <br/>Downing the full beer, Ian sighs with accomplishment as he slams the glass back onto the table. </p><p>“Tough guy, huh?” Mickey seems a little impressed. That could be just Ian’s intoxicated mind telling him that. Mickey finally turns to face Ian, “You challenging me?” <br/>Ian rolls his shoulders back, struggling to not to stumble. He knows he looks unintimidating considering his upper-class appearance had slowly dissolved as he suit was now a crumpled mess and his hair was dangling and poking in all directions. He’s tries anyway. </p><p>“Maybe.” He grins, smile so wide his eyes become squinty, “Or you too much of a pussy. Scared of a little competition?” </p><p>Pleading Mickey didn’t punch him on the spot, Ian kept his composure, stumbling a little of course, an kept his eyes bearing into Mickey’s. To his surprise Mickey took it lightly. Well, if you call him cursing under his breath and placing a middle finger in front of Ian’s face lightly, then, yeah, Mickey took Ian’s newfound confidence lightly. </p><p>Mickey forcefully grabs another beer, threating before he lets the liquid touch his lips, “My ass.” <br/>*** <br/>An hour later Ian’s profound confidence had got them extremely drunk. Ian more than Mickey, but they were both a little wobbly and fumbling around with their words. Mickey had placed himself in a vacant wooden stool, moving with the rocking of the boat, his mouth dry despite downing each beer he had held in his hand. Ian had opted for some dancing. He had befriended a little girl, the same girl that Mickey had been giggling and drawing with the day prior and twirled and lifted her in delight as each song fled through the lower decks. </p><p>Ian felt finally free. For the first time in his drowning existence he felt the want to have air in his lungs. This boat was initially his prison, transporting him to his execution. Now, he felt the ground beneath him vibrate in unison of laughter and uplifting music. Ian’s smile never faltered, his body buzzing, his hands finally steady as he guided the little girl in a joyful dance. As much as he loved the energy and the monumental breathlessness, he needed another drink. He looks back towards the table he had left Mickey at, his smile sticking as he watches Mickey joke around his beer glass, his arm latched over Iggy’s shoulder. </p><p>Ian leans down towards his newly acquainted dance-partner, “I’m going to dance with him,” he points to Mickey, “is that okay?” </p><p>The little girl sulks crossing her arms. Ian feels a little guilty, “You’re still my best girl, Cora.” </p><p>With that Cora’s smile grows, hugging at Ian’s leg before she runs between the crowd. Ian giggles at the interaction before heading towards Mickey’s table. He feels himself swaying a little, hoping he could blame it on the continuous rocking of the Titanic. Mr Andrews had said the waters were relatively calm, not that third-class passengers would care, but Ian’s excuse would definitely not work. </p><p>As Ian reaches the table, he hears Mickey ask Iggy, “So, how’s it going, man?” He points over to a young woman, her hair curled, loosely dangling from her shoulders. She waves over to Iggy’s direction. </p><p>Iggy waves back, lovestruck, “Well, she can’t understand me. I can’t understand her. But, as you can see, we sure as hell like eachother.” He wiggles his brows, “You know what I mean?” </p><p>Mickey pushes Iggy’s face away, hand slipping slightly, “Dirty fuckers.” </p><p>Ian can tell Mickey was slowly becoming victim to the effects of drinking over six beers in an hour. His hair was falling all over the place, his eyes glazed over, his mouth slacking each time he pushed a word from his lips. Ian liked this Mickey. For one, he hadn’t cursed at Ian’s hovering presence, which was a usual trait of sober Mickey Milkovich. </p><p>Ian slurs as he places his hands against the table, “Mickey. You wanna dance?” </p><p>Mickey shakes his head, grabbing another sip, “Nah, I’m fine where I am.” </p><p>“Oh, come onnnn...” Ian whines, clearing testing Mickey’s patience. </p><p>“Fuck off, I don’t dance.” Mickey rejects him again. </p><p>Ian, the determined fuck he is, doesn’t give up. Mickey was going to dance. “It’s fun, Mick. What’s wrong with a little fun?” </p><p>Iggy chuckles teasingly, nudging Mickey, “Yeah, Mick. What’s wrong with a little fun?” </p><p>Mickey physically puts up his walls, shoving Iggy away in process. “Everything.” He deadpans, sipping at his beer, exasperated. “Everything is wrong with it.” </p><p>Ian teases him, leaning in closer, “Why you gotta be so grumpy?” Ian offers his hand, “Get up and dance.” </p><p>It’s clear Mickey wasn’t exactly ecstatic about the situation, his shoulders tensing and his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, like everytime Ian had suggested something utterly stupid. Flickering his eyes towards Ian, trying hopelessly to get his point across, he demands, “Why you gotta be so fucking annoying? Dance by yourself.” </p><p>Ian stands straight, arms crossed, his eyes all glassy whilst his bottom lip pouts, “Maybe I wanna dance with you.” </p><p>Obviously, it’s the alcohol spurting his words out for him, but he really fucking did want to dance with the grumpy-ass Milkovich. </p><p>Mickey refuses once more, feeling the pressure building, “I ain’t dancing to shit.” </p><p>That’s when Tommy chimes in, saving Ian from another pathetic plea, “Mick, get up and dance with the man. God dammit. Sick of seeing those lovesick puppy eyes staring at us.” </p><p>Ian giggles as Mickey grows immensely more irritated. Slamming his glass against the sticky, wooden surface of the table, he gestures angrily towards Ian, “You fucking dance with him then?” </p><p>Tommy shrugs, gulping down half his beer. He steps up, linking his arms within Ian’s, “Alright. Come on, Money Bags, let’s fucking dance.” </p><p>Ian clicks onto Tommy’s ingenious plan to coax Mickey into dancing; he and Tommy step back slowly, a testing looks on their faces as they back away. Mickey fidgets in his seat, sneaking quick glances at each of them, his thumb brushing irritated into his eyebrow. </p><p>Tommy leans to Ian’s ear, whispering, “Just you watch.” </p><p>Suddenly, Mickey is biting at his lip as he rushes up from his seat. Ian senses jealously in Mickey’s posture and aggravated expression; it’s cute. Mickey barges past the table and shoves Tommy off Ian possessively. “Alright, alright. I’ll fucking dance. Just stop with those fucking eyes.” </p><p>Tommy raises his hands in surrender, “He’s all yours, Mick.” </p><p>Mickey sneers at the table, “Stop fucking looking at me like that.” </p><p>Iggy teases, laughing loudly at Mickey’s jealously, “oooo, touchy.” </p><p>Ian watches as Mickey’s fists clench together, his face hardening. Mickey was such a drama queen. </p><p>Threating, Mickey bares his teeth, without an inch of truth, “I’ll rip your fucking head off.” </p><p>A chuckle falls from Ian’s lips as he repeats quietly, “So touchy.” his hand helplessly trying to hide it. Mickey, of course, hears it and turns around like a pitbull. </p><p>Jabbing a finger into Ian’s chest, which Ian found endearing strangely, Mickey scowls, “Don’t think I’d do the same thing to you, Red.” </p><p>Ian’s drunken heart warms at the nickname. It wasn’t Gallagher for once. Mickey had a tendency to refer to him as those things; Ian had never heard the man even say Ian. Maybe one day Mickey would actually call him by his name instead of burying it deep to create a distance between them. </p><p>Suspending Ian’s thoughts, Iggy gives one last jab, “Things are getting pretty serious, huh? Have nicknames for eachother and shit.” </p><p>“Oh, fuck off!” Mickey yells. </p><p>Ian drags him away before he could progress in his angry spiel. </p><p>They land in the middle of the room, people barging and scrambling around for the right steps. The song switches. Ian grins sloppily as Mickey’s face begins to soften. He’s trembling a little, Ian can tell, and he glances around paranoid and lost within the roaring dances. Ian grabs Mickey’s right hand into his left, his other hand sliding to the small of his back. Mickey pushes against the touch but Ian insists, pushing their chests closer together. It’s an electrifying moment.</p><p>“Fuck you doing, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, nervously. </p><p>With a wink, Ian takes a step back bringing Mickey with him. “We’re dancing.” </p><p>Mickey pushes against Ian’s grip once more, “I can’t do this shit.” </p><p>Ian, a little demanding this time, pushes their chest closer, “Just move with me. You’ll be fine.” </p><p>The music grows louder and they’re off. Ian hears Mickey cursing under his breath, calling out Ian for making him do this in the first place, giving fucks and shits up the high heavens, as Ian leads him around the room with a jig. They’re a little awkward at first, Ian literally dragging Mickey around, until Mickey begins to into it. Ian’s world lights up as he spots Mickey really getting into the rhythm of the music, his skin glowing, his flustered cheeks puffing as he smiled. </p><p>Ian lets go of Mickey’s hand, halting for a second, “Wait!” </p><p>Mickey’s eyes grow wide, an insecure look returning to his expression. </p><p>Ian rips off his white tie, flinging over to Tommy. “That’s better.” </p><p>Mickey’s shoulders deflate but Ian give him no time to run and links his arms with his as they whirl around the wooden deck. They fail to exchange any words as they danced through their hour, their smiles mirroring those around them, their hearts beating in a rapid unison. Ian felt words weren’t needed for this moment. They were both free in the moment; stripped and away from the societal confines of their class. At this moment neither he nor Mickey belonged to anything; no class, no world, and no heteronormative stereotype that forced them to believe they could be nothing but two beings from separate worlds. Mickey looked beautiful; a beacon of everything that Ian had dreamed of. He danced in a way that Ian wanted to dance; he laughed in a way that Ian wanted to hear forever. </p><p>The music increases in speed. The room becomes rowdy and rollicking, tables overturned as drunks crash into them, brawls occurring at corners ending with embraces. At the middle of the chaos, Ian and Mickey dance. The steps are fast, and they shine with sweat. A space around them opens up and Iggy and his lover step into it. He whirls he around and she does the same, his eyes growing wide when he soon realises that she is stronger than he is. Mickey and Ian chuckle as they dance, allowing themselves to be free. </p><p>The tune ends in a mad rush. Ian steps away from Mickey in a flourish, his face flustered with joy. They breathe heavily together, just staring into eachother’ s eyes, trapped within a trance of bliss. Ian bows, gesturing to Mickey to do the same. </p><p>“Fuck off.” Mickey chuckles, shoving Ian playfully as they left the some-what dance floor. </p><p>Ian catches his breath, embracing his surroundings. He was a sure hit with the steerage folks, who had never seen an upper-class man party with them. The party’s upper deck was boring, tedious even, filled with political chatter and mind-numbing speeches. Ian had never felt elevated in his entire existence. This was real people. Real people dancing. Real people basking in happiness. Real people in a bubble of collective love. </p><p>Exhilarated and slightly drunk, they move to a table. All flushed and sweaty, Ian grabs the cigarette that balanced between Iggy’s lips, taking a large drag. He was feeling cocky. This whole rebellious attitude of Mickey’s was rubbing off on him. </p><p>The music begins to blare again and suddenly a drunk bashes into Tommy, who unfortunately spills his entire beer over Ian and his stark white shirt. Ian laughs, admiring the irony of the action. Upper-class care so dearly for the whiteness of their shirts, and in a simple second Ian’s was a total disaster of beer stains and cigarette ash. </p><p>Mickey, however, didn’t take it too well. “Fuck you playing at?!” </p><p>Ian tipsily watches as Mickey charges towards the drunk behind Tommy, his fists clenched as his teeth gritted with fury. Ian steps in, despite relishing in Mickey’s newfound protectiveness, and pushes a hand into Mickey’s puffed up chest. </p><p>“It’s fine, Mick.” </p><p>Mickey huffs out a breath, “It aint fucking fine, Gallagher.” </p><p>Ian’s heart coos. Mickey didn’t need to hear how Ian Gallagher was slowly starting to fall for him at this trying time, so he keeps his mind quiet and his mouth calm. “Honestly, let it go.” </p><p>“Fine.” Mickey huffs, like a little child, stepping away, “You okay?” </p><p>Ian groans, “Jesus, I’m fine, Mick.” He pushes the cigarette before Mickey’s face. “Have this.” </p><p>Mickey snatches the smoke, puffing a couple of quick drags as he mutters, “Fucking idiots.” </p><p>Trapped in a sensation of pure awe and delight, Ian follows the movement of Mickey’s lips as he wraps them around the cigarette. He feels his pants twitch, his own lips yearning to feel the pressure of those plump curves. Mickey was a raging pitbull, a dick with a smart mouth, but a cute one at that. </p><p>The door to the well deck is open a few inches as Lovejoy watches through the gap. Unbeknownst to the party before his gaze, he examines Mickey and Ian laughing and concealed into a tiny bubble of an ever-growing bliss. </p><p>Lovejoy closes the door. <br/>**** <br/>The stars blaze overhead as Ian and Mickey find themselves wandering aimlessly around the upper deck, swaying along by the row of lifeboats. Still giddy from the party, they push and shove each other playfully, each tripping a little as they found their footing. It’s late and the deck is practically empty, beside the officials roaming the decks with inspection. </p><p>They reach the First-class entrance, but avoid walking in, neither of them wanting the evening to end. Not that either of them had said that of course. Through the doors, the sound of the ship’s orchestra wafts gently. Ian grabs a davit, leaning back whilst staring into the cosmos. </p><p>“Woah,” Ian gasps, “isn’t fucking beautiful, Mickey? I mean look at it.” </p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes, balancing against the rail with a smoke in his hand. “You’re fucking drunk, Gallagher.” </p><p>Ian giggles loudly, too loud, “I am.” He leans against the rail, close to Mickey, as he tries to find his balance, “I’m--- uh, I am a little.” He pushes two fingers together, “A smidge.” </p><p>Mickey laughs around his smoke, “Jesus Christ.” He shoves Ian a little with his shoulder, “It’s not very upper-class of you falling on your ass, Gallagher.” </p><p>Ian’s smile dims, the realisation kicking in that he would pay for acting like he had that night. If Russ, Fiona or anyone saw him in this state, bad things would follow. </p><p>“Yeah,” he breathes, reaching for Mickey’s smoke, “They’re such idiots, Mick.” </p><p>Mickey lets Ian take it, “think I don’t know that? Hate those fuckers.” </p><p>Again, Ian slips further into a low expression. Mickey hated those fuckers, but those fuckers were Ian. Ian was one of them. Ian sighs heavily, “They think they’re giants. Get anything, do anything, be with anyone. They live in this little champagne bubble … and someday, well, it’s going to burst.” </p><p>Somehow Mickey knows that Ian is placing himself into that category, into that little bubble. Mickey leans closer against the rail, his hand just touching his. It is the slightest contact imaginable, and all either one of them can feel is that square inch of skin where their hands touched. </p><p>Mickey speaks quietly, soft, “You’re not one of them, Ian.” </p><p>Ian denies, allowing the little touch to somehow calm him, “I am, Mick.” </p><p>Ian’s too trapped within his own mind to realise Mickey had called him by his real name. </p><p>Mickey pulls the smoke from Ian’s lips, placing it within his own, “Nah, man. There’s been a mistake.” </p><p>Confused, Ian wipes a tear, “A mistake?” </p><p>“Yup.” Mickey answers, looking over towards the water, “You’ve been mailed to the wrong address.” </p><p>Ian laughs wetly, a smile finally shining through his saddened expression. Mickey feels a tad victorious. He hated seeing the kid all puffy and weepy. He brushes off the brewing feeling in his chest. Now was not the time. </p><p>They bask in the silence that suffocated them; the waves below crashing and splashing at the dark sides of the ship. That’s until Ian spots something, jerking Mickey in surprise. </p><p>“Look, Mick!” Ian points to the dark sky, “It’s a shooting star! LOOK!” </p><p>“Hilarious.” Mickey comments, uninterested. “You know they’re dead stars, right?”</p><p>Ian ignores his moan, watching the star as it shot across the darkened palette. He shakes Mickey’s shoulder excitedly, “You ever seen one of those? You’re supposed to make a wish.” </p><p>Mickey allows Ian to touch him, to have his exciting moment, and looks back out to sea. “Is that right? What you fucking wish for then?” </p><p>After a beat, Ian pulls back from the rail, drawing Mickey’s attention to him. His eyes well up a little, the words stuck in his throat. “Something I can’t have.” </p><p>Mickey looks at Ian, intensely as he tries to work him out, and finds that they are suddenly very close together. It was be easy to move a couple more inches, to kiss Ian, to feel those wet lips against his own. This feeling felt alien. Ian was standing there, his breath tainted with liquor brushing against Mickey’s face, his eyes all watery and his cheeks all red in a fluster. As the wind blows at the ginger strands that now fell against Ian’s eyes, he felt the immense need to grab him, to lock him in his arms, to feel that kiss. Suddenly, the feeling becomes to overwhelming. He clicks his tongue as his eyes are drawn from Ian’s gaze to his lips; it was overwhelming, Ian was overwhelming. </p><p>He couldn’t do this. </p><p>He couldn’t kiss Ian. </p><p>If he did, he’d never beable to again. </p><p>Mickey breaks the silence, wiping his own face, before taking one last look at Ian. “I can’t fucking do this.” Mickey croaks, before running down the deck with immersive confusion of emotions. </p><p>Ian calls after him, “Mickey! Wait!” </p><p>Then he’s gone, out of sight. Back to his own world. </p><p>Ian can’t help but think that that was how it was always going to be.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. This Distance Between Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>April 14, 1912. </strong>
</p><p>It’s a bright clear day on board the Titanic, the sun beaming against it’s sanded decks, slashing across the promenade. Ian and Russ are eating breakfast in a deafening silence. The tension is palpable. Ian jerks in each of his movements, pleading that Russ couldn’t sense his activities below-deck from his anxious expression. Despite from Russ, who was equally acting just as strange that morning, Ian could not push Mickey out of his mind. </p><p>Ian was a total idiot. He should have never mentioned that stupid shooting star, never-mind hinting to Mickey that is undying wish was to be, or be around, with him. Ian didn’t even have to say anything for Mickey to realise what he had been trying to say. And, Ian didn’t need a response to understand that Mickey didn’t want that too – he had literally bolted the second the atmosphere around them shrivelled in such tension, where their bodies were inches apart, and Ian kept wanting to make that gap smaller. Mickey had run – that was a clear enough message. But Ian couldn’t help consider that there was an alternative motive to Mickey’s fast escape. </p><p>Mickey was a mysterious person, all mouth but without emotive expression. </p><p> </p><p>Ian couldn’t wrap his head around Mickey, he wanted to desperately, but Mickey was guarded, a closed book, and it felt impossible to break through his tightly protected barriers. <br/>Suddenly, Trudy, a maid Russ had hired purely for the ship, knocked Ian out of his thoughts. Leaning over the quiet table, she pours the coffee then trailing back inside. </p><p>Russ speaks first, voice tainted with false hurt, “I hoped you would have come to see me last night.” </p><p>Ian glances up, feeling ashamed and frightened that his actions would be discovered. He mumbles, picking at the eggs before him, “I was tired.” </p><p>“Yes.” Russ bites, slamming his fork against the table. “I’m sure your exertions below decks was absolutely exhausting.” </p><p>Ian stiffens. He already predicted what would happen next. He feels Mickey in his ear, encouraging him to stand up to Russ, so he attempts to hold his own, “I see you had that creepy undertaker of a manservant follow me, huh?” </p><p>As guessed, Russ raises his voice, yelling in Ian’s direction causing him to jump in his seat. “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” Russ tightens his fists at the top of the table. “You will never behave like that again; do you understand me?” </p><p>Ian’s pulse begins to grow rapid, his eyes glazing over with tears that formed only when Russ was like this. Russ terrified him, more than his own father, his sister, and it wasn’t just the fact that Russ would throw punches at him without a second thought, but because he knew that without Russ he’d have nothing, no-one, and the paradox of emotions was exhausting. </p><p>He listens to Mickey’s niggling voice in the back of his head, allowing himself to find that voice that had never been heard. “You think I’m just one for your servants, or should I say slaves, that you can command whenever you feel like it? I’m your fiancée---” </p><p>Russ explodes, sweeping the breakfast china off the table with a crash. He storms around the table in one shocking moment, glowering over him whilst gripping the sides of Ian’s chair, trapping him between his arms. “Yes, you are <em>my</em> fiancée,” He leans in closer to Ian, growling with rage, “soon to be by fucking law. So, you will do what I say, speak when I tell you speak, and act like I want you to act.” </p><p>Ian shrinks into his chair, allowing the tears to stream down his face. He wasn’t prepared for Russ to abuse him among the decks of the ship; he hadn’t thought about it much since he met Mickey. But the reason for this current fear was caused by meeting Mickey. He holds his breath, unable to speak, unable to be heard. </p><p>Russ fails to contain his anger, fingers tightening around the arms of Ian’s chair, “I will not like anybody, especially you, make me look like a goddamn fool. Is that fucking clear?” </p><p>Ian nods desperately, his hands trapped in panic. He closes his eyes ready for Russ’s physical awakening but luckily the footsteps approaching the door had yet again saved him from such rage. </p><p>“Is everything okay, Mr Walters?” The maid’s shaky voice echoed through the room. </p><p>Ian wants to thank her, hug her, or just admit to what he had to endure by the hands of Russ. But the thought was helpless; Russ was a man in high places, known by all and highly respected, and Ian’s accusations would fall flat the second they left his mouth. As usual, he keeps his mouth shut, abiding by Russ’s demands, entrapping him within Russ’s ownership. </p><p>Russ darts his head to the door, his hands immediately releasing their hold around Ian. He nods towards the maid, reaching down towards Ian with infamous last words, sinisterly whispering, “You better be grateful she came in here just now.”</p><p>It’s a ultimate relief that Ian had avoided walking out of there all battered a bruised, but it didn’t stop the ongoing, internal torture that twisted in his stomach. This was his life now. No-one, not even the ever-so fearless Mickey, could rescue him from this. Russ was right, he did belong to him, he did need him. Ian’s prior belief that maybe, just maybe, he had a chance to develop a new life, to escape from the hell he already lived among, was washed away. </p><p>This was his life; his dreams, those dreams, were merely a fantasy. <br/>*** <br/>Ian’s dressed for the day as he helps Fiona with her corset. The tight bindings do not inhibit Fiona’s fury at all. Ian had approached her after Russ’s violent outburst and was waved off, almost immediately, and dragged towards the cabin. Fiona had always favoured Russ, even when he had nearly killed Ian, and she had good reason to. </p><p>Ian pulls at the bindings, Fiona grits her teeth speaking lowly, “You can never see that boy again, Ian. Got it? You are not to see him.” </p><p>There’s a twist in Ian’s gut; he didn’t want to never see Mickey again. Not when their last conversation had ended so badly, without some-sort of closure, without knowing how Mickey actually felt. Ian wanted to feel the way that he did around Mickey, he wanted to be free like he had been the night before, but was that just another fantasised moment like the rest? </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Ian sighs, “Jesus Christ, Fiona.” He pulls at the corset strings, his knee pushing at the base of her back. “You’ll give yourself a goddamn nosebleed.” </p><p>Fiona harshly pushes away from Ian’s presence behind her, storming over the open cabin door. Slamming it shut, locking it behind her, she stalks towards Ian, her corset half-fastened. “Do you think this is a game, Ian? Do you? Do you have any idea about what situation we are in? All the money is gone, all of it!” </p><p>Ian wafts his hands around gesturally, growing frustrated, “You tell me every single day. Kinda hard to forget when it’s all you fucking talk about.” </p><p>Fiona’s eyes widen at Ian’s burst. She steps into his space, her eyes blaring with escalating anger. She continues her spiel, “I don’t get you at all. Russ is amazing, everything you’d want in a husband. Why can’t you see that? He is our only chance of survival.” </p><p>That wasn’t a surprise. Ian knew that his relationship with Russ was a match made purely for reputational means; love, friendship, and the ability to actually be around him, was nothing to be admired or required. The Gallagher’s were a prestigious family but at some point, that luck, that lucrative wealth, was soon to run out.  Ian marrying Russ would confirm the inability for the Gallagher reputation to collapse; they would inherit everything, including shares in Russ’s wealth, and they did not appreciate Ian’s mental entrapment caused by it all. His emotional freedom was not a priority; securing the family name, their reputation, was far more important. </p><p>Ian wipes underneath his eyes, shaking a little, “How can you do this to me, Fiona? How can you put all of this on my shoulders?” </p><p>Fiona turns, gesturing to Ian to continue tightening the corset, and she answers quietly, “Frank left us with nothing but debt, Ian. All of them hidden by a good name. We’ve got that name and we’re sure as hell going to use it. Count yourself lucky.” </p><p>Lucky? How could marrying Russ, being held captive within a legal binding document, be lucky? </p><p>“I can’t do it.” Ian finally breaks, pulling at her corset, hurt yet lost instantaneously. </p><p>Fiona turns towards him, and their expressions mirror each other – the naked fear of the inevitable.</p><p>Ian’s mind flickers back to his first night spent on the ship – the stern, the dark black waves below, the undeniable need to pull himself over the railings. It was tempting. </p><p>Fiona gulps, “You’ve got no choice. You’re marrying Russ, that is it.” </p><p>For a moment, Ian notices a glint of guilt in Fiona’s eyes before it suddenly disappears. Fiona was his sister, after all, but that unconditional love was overpowered by her greed for wealth and stability. Ian wants to scream, punch his fists into the wooden four walls suffocating him, but he does no such things, remaining respectable – the upper-class man he was expected to be – and begins to finish the ties on Fiona’s corset. </p><p>Under his breath, he whispers in grief, “It’s not fair.” </p><p>“Of course, it’s not fair.” Fiona matches his tone, “We’re Gallagher’s, nothing is ever easy.” </p><p>Ian tightens her corset once more. <br/>*** <br/>Mickey was an absolute idiot. How could he have just run like that? Ran away like that, when Ian was literally opening his heart to him. Yet, Mickey had by now realised why he did run. He couldn’t express his feelings openly, not like Ian could, and he struggled to even process the thoughts logically in his mind. It had been drilled into him that feelings were non-negotiable, and, because of that, they were useless, and a distraction. Mickey moved from place to place, person among person, nonchalantly because he hadn’t allowed his feelings to build inside. It was quintessentially easy to brush them out of his mind. Yet, Ian had a way of bringing those unfamiliar thoughts forward. </p><p>Lying in his small bunk, swaying with the rocking of the ship, he realises something else. He was in fact an idiot; an idiot that left the only person who could see through his tough bravado and brutish behaviour standing, mouth agape and gutted, on the wooden decks. <br/>Mickey shoots up, allowing his heart to overpower his logic, “Fuck.” <br/>*** </p><p>“Hey! You! You’re not supposed to be in here!” </p><p>Mickey ignores the commotion escalating in the wake of his arrival at the First-class dining saloon. Driven by his motivation to locate Ian and to somehow, in his own way, explain his actions from the night before, Mickey barged past the scurrying stewards who hopelessly strived to stop Mickey in his determined tracks.</p><p>Dressed in his third-class slacks, Mickey is suddenly halted by two larger stewards, glaring at him with mounting authority. </p><p>The steward grabs at his arm, “Stop right there, boy.” </p><p>Mickey was tempted, so tempted, to turn and punch the guy, but he was intent on finding Ian and getting thrown out for violent assaults would not progress his situation. Instead, he opts for a calmer tone, bearing a false smile, “I was here last night, you remember, right?” </p><p>The stewards exchange a questioning glance, examining Mickey’s outward appearance in comparison to his words of persuasion. They shake their heads, pulling at Mickey’s arm harder. Mickey isn’t giving in the glares of first-class degradation, and pulls the attention of a familiar face standing by the saloon entrance. </p><p>“Ask him, he’ll tell you.” </p><p>Mickey points to Lovejoy, a hopeful feeling building within his chest. Lovejoy pushes himself off the wall, hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes glinting with mischievous disgust. He eyes Mickey up and down, his face twisting into a disconcerted and unimpressed scowl. </p><p>Mickey’s hopeful feeling disintegrates almost immediately. </p><p>Lovejoy fumbles around in his pocket, his tone harsh, “Mr. Walters and Mr. Gallagher continue to be appreciative of your assistance Mr. Milkovich. They encouraged me this give you this in gratitude—” </p><p>Lovejoy holds out two twenty-dollar bills, which Mickey instantly refuses with discontent. </p><p>Shoving the money away with force, Mickey spits, “I don’t want your fucking money—” </p><p>Lovejoy presses towards Mickey, looking down at him with a superiority that only a man of greed and lust for wealth would withhold. Mickey seethes at the condescending tone Lovejoy continues to address him with. “May I remind you, boy, that you’re a third-class passenger on this ship. This part of the ship is only for people with class and decorum, not --- well, not you.” </p><p>The stewards laugh with Lovejoy, enjoying Mickey’s humiliation. Mickey doesn’t acknowledge the comments, adding them to the ever-growing insults and superior beliefs that reigned down on his type. He had heard it all before, seen it all before, and it didn’t bother him in the slightest. </p><p>What bothered him more was his inability to fix things with Ian. Lovejoy was a barrier, blocking his capability of doing just that. Mickey didn’t like obstacles, especially ones that were dressed as a stuck-up penguin, with a face that was very, very punch-able in this moment. As he attempts to put together an elaborate plan to get past Lovejoy, he notices a familiar face among the crowd gathered in the dining saloon. </p><p>Among the singers, all blaring out in hymns, Mickey’s eyes caught Ian’s face. It was hard not to spot such beauty among such monsters; Ian stood out, unlike the rest, as a symbol of unbelonging, and his eyes were filled with a coldness that Mickey recognised from their very first introductions. Ian held a small book in his eyes, eyes looking forward, but no emotion laid behind them, and his cheeks were pale, lacking those red tinted cheeks Mickey had become accustom to. Mickey could see the difference, or the retraction of Ian’s state of appearance, and felt an even stronger urge to get to him. He pushes against the stewards strength, eyes never leaving Ian’s sunken expression. </p><p>It hurt a little bit to consider that it was him, his choice in running away, that caused that sadness. </p><p>Mickey mutters, pushing harder, “I just need to speak to Ian –” </p><p>Lovejoy shoves at Mickey’s shoulder, “Gentleman, please take Mr. Milkovich back to where he belongs.” Passing Mickey, a sinister smirk, relishing in Mickey’s defeat, he adds, “and make sure he <em>stays</em> there.” </p><p>The stewards accept Lovejoy’s payment, gripping Mickey with utter force, shoving him towards the entrance he had previously stormed through. “Come along.” </p><p>As Mickey gets hustled out, he makes sure he imprints Ian’s beauty, his whole being, into his mind. </p><p>There had to be another way to get to him. <br/>*** </p><p>“This isn’t going to work.” </p><p>“I agree. This is fucking madness.” </p><p>“It’s going to be a total shitshow.” </p><p>“Telling you, you’re gonna embarrass yourself, man.” </p><p>“I ain’t getting chucked off this fucking ship because you’ve got the hots for money bags.” </p><p>“If those rich fucks ask, I aint knowing you.” </p><p>Mickey pinches at the bridge of his nose as he stalks with total fortitude, muddling out Iggy’s and Tommy’s ridiculous conversation behind him. He knew this was bad idea, appointing them two into his ingenious plan to get to the first-class deck without being seen, but he wasn’t going to mount the wall between each deck, without a little assistance. </p><p>Iggy continues, “Man, you heard the man yourself. Ian basically paid you to fuck off.” </p><p>Mickey moves furtively to the wall below A-deck. He knocks back Iggy’s comment, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He turns, “It was them, not Ian.” </p><p>That’s what he hoped. Maybe Ian had told Lovejoy to pay him to go? Maybe he did because Mickey had bailed out on him the night before. Mickey wouldn’t know until he confronted him, he had to speak to him, see him, to explain himself. Ian deserved that, at-least. </p><p>Mickey glances, paranoid, around the deck, “Right, lets fucking do this.” </p><p>Tommy shakes his head resignedly, putting his hands together as he crouched down by Mickey’s feet. Mickey steps onto Tommy’s hands, allowing him to boost him up the wall. The first attempt at mounting the wall failed. </p><p>Mickey utters curses to himself, “Fuck.” He steps off Tommy’s hands before demanding again, “Fucking give it some strength next time---” </p><p>“If it wasn’t for your fat fuckin’ ass—” </p><p>“Shut the fuck up and boost me up.” Mickey cuts Tommy off, stepping once more into his enclosed hands below him. </p><p>With a grunt of effort, Tommy lifts Mickey’s weight above him, heightening his position against the wall. Mickey scrambles nimbly over the railing, falling clumsily onto the First-class deck. Standing up, peeping his head over the wall to look down at the others, he grins widely with pride. Putting up his middle finger in an exit, he rushes deeper into A-deck. </p><p>Iggy shakes his head, pulling out a smoke, “He’s fuckin’ smitten, man.” </p><p>Tommy nods in agreement, “Totally.” <br/>*** <br/>Among the A-deck, by the first-class lounge entrance, a man is seen playing with his son, spinning around a top with a string. The man’s overcoat rests on a deck chair nearby. Mickey emerges from behind one of the huge deck cranes, breathless, and calmly picks up the coat with ease. As he walks away, he slips into the coat, slicking back his dark locks with spit. </p><p>At a distance he may as-well be a gentleman. <br/>*** <br/>A couple of yards away, among the starboard side of the ship, Ian finds himself engulfed within a Edwardian nautilus room. A woman pedals a stationary bicycle in a long dress, looking ridiculous. It was an image that Ian would find himself devotedly amused by, but the overwhelming dread thriving through his body was draining each of his senses. </p><p>Thomas Andrews leads a small tour group, consisting of Ian, Fiona, Russ and a couple of other rich passengers that floated nearby. Russ currently sits, working the oars of a stationary rowing machine with a well-trained stroke. Ian, however, learns to despise the space, just like everything else, and chooses to focus on the wild waves crashing against the side of the ship. At starboard side, you can notice all the lifeboats, strapped to the sides, cluttering but building a sense of internal trust. </p><p>As they reach the boat-deck, a couple of minutes later, Ian diffuses the muffled chatter around him and suddenly realises something; a worried look bearing against his pale cheeks. “Mr Andrews,” he calls out, tapping the man against the shoulder. </p><p>Andrews darts to his attention, “Yes, Ian?” </p><p>“So,” Ian bites his lip, avoiding the deafening glare from Russ and Fiona, “I did the sum in my head, and, well, with this number of lifeboats times the capacity you’ve mentioned,” He takes a breath, still calculating his own thoughts, “Well, it seems like there aren’t enough of them.” </p><p>Andrews doesn’t share Ian’s worried expression, instead nodding with acceptance, “Yeah, about half, actually.” He points towards the lifeboats, sadden expression now falling upon his eyes, “I did put in these new-type of davits, which would take an extra row of boats.” Ashamed, he tuts, “But, it was thought, by some, that the deck was too cluttered. I was over-ruled.” </p><p>Before Ian can comfort Andrews shame, and guilt that spread across him, Russ interjects with yet another arrogant display of naivety, slapping the side of the deck,</p><p>“What a waste of deck space. Who needs lifeboats on the Titanic? No one, because it’s unsinkable!” </p><p>Ian rolls his eyes, out of sight from the rest, and slowly follows the group from the rear, his mind still stuck on the instability and unreliability of a ship that was so unsinkable. As they are passing life-boat No.7, Ian hears rushed footsteps nearing up behind him. Without a second to even see what the mysterious, intruding steps were, he feels a hand wrap around his mouth, dragging him away from the rest of the group. He screams into the skin, illuminating fear rising in his stomach. <br/>*** <br/>Mickey releases Ian gently as he pushes them both into a small room, west from group he had closely followed. Ian was all flustered, eyes fluttering open, his hands shaking all over the place. In anger he realises the situation, and shoves Mickey in the chest. </p><p>“What the hell are you doing, Mickey?!” </p><p>Mickey ignores Ian’s pleas for a clarification, and glances out the ripples-glass window to the starboard rail, noticing a gym instructor chatting up the woman riding aimlessly, and still ridiculously on the stationary bike. Mickey squints mystified to the fact that rich folk couldn’t even sail without showing off their luxuries. No one, not even rich fucks, need a mobile gymnasium.</p><p>Ian pushes him again, ripping him from his thoughts. “Mickey? What is--- I can’t be here.” </p><p>Standing before Ian, Mickey can sense something different right away. Ian’s eyes were puffed up red, his skin paler than usual, his tone cold and his eyes lost. Ian wasn’t himself, that was for sure, as he’d be chewing his ear off already. Something had happened, and for some reason, beknown to Mickey, he needed to find that out. </p><p>Firstly, however, he had to explain himself. “Listen, Gallagher. About last night—” </p><p>Ian cuts him off straight away, heading towards the door, reliving no emotion. “Forget it, Mickey. I’ve gotta go.” </p><p>Mickey wasn’t letting him go that easily. Not when Ian was acting like a brat. He slams his own back against the door, barricading Ian’s only escape. “You’re not going anywhere. Let me do this.” </p><p>Ian snarls, folding his arms. Why was he acting so strange? “Do what? Kidnap me in broad daylight?” </p><p>Scoffing, Mickey rubs an awkward hand across his chin, “Don’t be so fucking dramatic.” </p><p>“No, not dramatic.” Ian speaks in a sharp tone, composed, as if he’s reading from a script. “Realistic, Mickey. I’m being realistic.” </p><p>Mickey’s taken aback by Ian’s newly formed attitude; it wasn’t a sarcastic attitude that usually Mickey could warm up too, it was different, and totally cold. This wasn’t Ian. It wasn’t the Ian that danced drunkenly with the little girl, or hollered out to shooting stars, and it wasn’t the same Ian that giggled childishly. Mickey observes the alien behaviour, trying to find a way to explain such a dramatic difference. </p><p>Ian lets out a breath, but his voice remains emotionless as he continues to confront Mickey. “Look. This, us, me dancing around with your people, it’s just a fantasy. That’s it.” Ian slaps his hands against his sides, eyebrows raised. “We’ve had fun, okay, but I’ve gotta start thinking about my future, Mick.” </p><p>Mickey laughs into his hand, spiking with irritant, “Fuck you mean by <em>you</em> people?” </p><p>Ian stutters, his old-self peeping through the cracks a little, “I didn’t mean it like that, Mick—” </p><p>Mickey can’t help but raise his voice back. Ian wanted to play that game then so be it. If Ian wanted to act like he didn’t care, then so be it. If Ian was acting like this just to get back at Mickey because he had bailed on him, then he’d allow it. But, if Ian thought he could lash out and call Mickey out, Mickey had the right to tell him some home-truths too. </p><p>Jabbing a finger into Ian’s chest, Mickey begins his own rant, “Fuck you, Gallagher. If you stay with<em> your</em> people, you won’t have a fuckin’ future.” He watches as Ian’s eyes flare up with tears, but carries on because Ian needed to hear this. “Nothing but a washed-up rich boy who cries himself to sleep every fuckin’ night, hanging off the back of ships.” </p><p>Ian wipes his face with his suit sleeve, leaving a damp circle, “So, what? You think it’s your job to save me?” </p><p>Mickey knew Ian needed saving. “No, that’s not my job. You do that shit yourself. I’m offering you a way to do that.” </p><p>Suddenly, Ian’s shoulders tense up, his face hardening despite the wet streams down his blushed cheeks. “Well,” he laughs wetly, “I don’t want to be saved, Mickey. I’m fine where I am.” </p><p>Ian was a terrible liar. Mickey wouldn’t believe an inch of that sentence considering Ian was a crumbling mess before him. “My fuckin’ ass.” </p><p>A minutes silence drops before them. It’s awkward, peculiar, and unconsciously calming. Ian takes the first move, his words low, his heart not connecting to his words. “I love Russ, okay?” </p><p>That makes Mickey’s eyes dart up. Ian was standing there, a sobbing mess, crumbling on the spot, admitting he loved a man he had been running, so desperately, from two days prior. Hell, Ian was ready to jump off the back of the ship to avoid marrying the guy. As Mickey knew, Ian was a terrible liar. Ian was an open book, always, and right now Mickey was reading every page easily. </p><p>Mickey didn’t want to the notice the decaying bruises pressed by Ian’s eye; he had noticed it the first time had laid eyes on the kid. But, as he had always been taught, some things remain better left unsaid. It wasn’t any of his business? But Ian was totally oblivious, a total idiot, trying to convince Mickey that he was in love with a man who could do that to him with such ease. </p><p>“Sure, Gallagher.” He steps further into Ian’s space, gesturing a hand towards Ian’s faint bruise, “What was it this time? The door? Falling down the stairs? Or you telling me the strong wind blew you over onto the decks, huh?” </p><p>Ian drops his head, whispering, “That’s not what this is.” </p><p>Mickey didn’t even have to notice the bruises to have a inkling to what was going on. Ian visibly curled into himself in the presence of Russ. His blood would flush from his face, his hands shaking wildly like they were right now. Mickey knew that feeling, he knew what it looked like, and he would not let Ian try to convince him it wasn’t that. </p><p>“Oh, I do.” Mickey snarls, jabbing another finger into Ian’s chest. “I Know you’re scared shitless of your fiancée, your sister, and all those rich fucks out there.” </p><p>Despite his tough-guy approach into confronting Ian, Mickey’s stomach twisted into knots at the thought of someone touching Ian like that, scaring him like that, making his face whimper, his eyes pour with tears, and he didn’t have a clue why. The urge to just buddle him up and protect him from everything was growing way to strong. </p><p>Ian refuses to agree, pushing Mickey away, “You don’t know anything.” </p><p>Mickey tries once more, “Ian---” </p><p>Ian finally finds the strength to speak louder, “I love Russ. I’m marrying Russ.” </p><p>Mickey watches as Ian tests the words, his mouth almost rejecting their meaning instantly, and he wants to slap Ian. Hard. But, just like all the other invading thoughts that Mickey wished to not have, he wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on Ian. </p><p>With an exasperated sigh, Mickey runs a hand through his hair, “Give it a rest, Ian.” </p><p>Suddenly, to Mickey’s exhausted annoyance, Ian lashes out, shoving Mickey a little towards the closed door. “What do you care anyway?” He dramatically raises his arms in disbelief, “You walk around this place making sure <em>everyone</em> knows that you literally don’t give a shit about anything, or anyone. So, why <em>do</em> you, Mickey?” </p><p>Mickey’s a little struck, letting Ian speak. </p><p>Ian questions him again, strongly. “Come on, tell me? Why do you give a shit about me? Huh? A guy you literally met two days ago.” </p><p>Mickey doesn’t hold the answers. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have the tiniest clue why he did care so much about Ian. He agreed, he shouldn’t because he barely knew the hardly, in-fact he didn’t know the guy, and yet he can’t help himself from wanting to protect him. He wished, oh he wished, that he had the answers, because then Ian would stop looking at him like that. </p><p>Avoiding the opportunity to provide Ian with an answer, Mickey shakes the conversation, “This is about last night, aint it. About me bailing on your ass.” </p><p>Ian doesn’t let him off that easily. “No. This is about me.” </p><p>That’s when Mickey is awakened to the realisation that if he didn’t provide Ian with an answer then this was it. He pressed down the feeling of dread, a fear of rejection, and the inability to express how he truly felt. Because the truth was, he didn’t know how he felt. Words were not his strong point, yet Ian was pressuring him into using them. Mickey knew he’d probably say the wrong thing, he always did, but if it would stop Ian looking like a wounded puppy he’d have to try. </p><p>“Listen, Gallagher,” He mutters lowly, approaching Ian slowly this time, “listen good. I rarely say this shit to people. Hell, I have never said this shit---” </p><p>Ian shakes his head, preventing his eyes from finding Mickey’s. “I’ve gotta go---” </p><p>Mickey loses his patience, “Ian, just fucking stop for one fuckin’ second.” </p><p>Mickey knew if he didn’t say it now then he’d never find the time to do it again. </p><p>Ian’s eyes grow wide, Mickey’s grow wider – in elated fear. “I ran out on your ass; I know that aright. I’m a fuckin’ ass, I know that too. But --- you fuckin’ scare the shit out of me, man. There I fuckin’ said it.” Mickey raises his brow as he continues, “You push yourself into my life and fuck it all up. You --- You’ve fucked me up, Ian. That’s why --- that’s why I’ve gotta get you outta here.” </p><p>Ian’s starting to cry, his sleeves attempting to wipe each tear but missing them as they drop from his plump lips. As Mickey speaks, he holds back his own emotions, but relaxes in acknowledgement that Ian felt it too. </p><p>Mickey rests his hand against Ian’s shaking arm, “You’re not like them.” He bites at his lips, pushing himself to get the rest out. “You’re kind. Fuckin’ annoying to the point where I want to skin your ass, and a total spoilt brat. But you care about people. More than I ever could. No fucker ever gave me a chance like you did. You stay with them, man. You’re gonna end up dead or fuckin’ burning out.” </p><p>“Mickey.” Ian speaks, breathlessly, his speech muddled with the shivering wetness of his sniffles. </p><p>It’s unbelievable, really, that Mickey had managed to say all that without bolting for the door. </p><p>Mickey wants to touch Ian’s cheek, to soothe him, to make him know that <em>shit was going to be okay,</em> but he had just poured his heart out, for the first time, and he wasn’t ready yet for anything else. He keeps his hand on Ian’s arm, laughing half-heartedly, “Thought I told you to shut the fuck up?” </p><p>Ian chuckles, a sound Mickey had patiently been waiting to hear. </p><p>With a devastating sigh, Ian twists Mickey’s stomach once more, “They’re going to be wondering where I am.” </p><p>Ian releases himself from Mickey’s touch, heading towards the door and unlocking it. </p><p>Mickey feels the hitch in his throat, an unfamiliar sensation, and brings back his sharp tone in attempt to stop Ian from walking out that door. “Did you just hear anything I’ve just fuckin’ said?” </p><p>Ian halts, hand resting at the handle, back turned. He doesn’t face Mickey, “I did.” </p><p>“So, why you running back to them like some bitch?” </p><p>Letting go of the handle, Ian spins around slowly, shoulder sagging, “It doesn’t change anything. No matter what you say, or do, I’m still marrying Russ.” </p><p>Mickey feels his voice grow soft, unwantedly, “You don’t have to.” </p><p>“You wouldn’t understand.” Ian shakes his head. </p><p>Mickey wants to understand, he has no idea why, but he does. “Try me.” </p><p>Ian shows nothing but reluctance, “I’m marrying Russ. This,” he points between him and Mickey, creating an invisible distance between them with his words, “us. Whatever it was. It’s over, Mick.” </p><p>Mickey can’t find the right words. He braces himself for the tears that threaten to fall, pushing them as far back as he could. He bites his lip relentlessly, the words at the tip of his tongue, <em>Don’t go,</em> but he hasn’t got an ounce of strength, nor bravery, to say them out-loud. <br/>I</p><p>an shrugs, before opening the door and taking one last look at Mickey. He leaves. Just like everyone did. Mickey yells, “Fine, Gallagher. Fuck off, then.” </p><p>He convinces himself he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t. But he <em>does.</em> Why the fuck does he care? Why did he suddenly want to care about a guy he had met two nights before? </p><p>When the door clicks shut, he allows himself that space to wipe relentlessly at the watering eyes. </p><p>Mickey didn’t care – he didn’t – until he <em>did</em>. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>